


where treasured things go

by marquelict



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Development, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hogwarts Eighth Year, Humor, M/M, Mystery, Slow Burn
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-02-23 06:53:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 17
Words: 74,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23640700
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marquelict/pseuds/marquelict
Summary: Harry Potter returns to Hogwarts to start his eighth year and finds that people's possessions are going missing all around the school. It falls on him to solve it, along with his friends, and his old enemy turned roommate, Draco Malfoy.
Relationships: Draco Malfoy/Harry Potter
Comments: 79
Kudos: 464





	1. chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “The things we lose have a way of coming back to us in the end, if not always in the way we expect.” — Luna Lovegood

The Hogwarts Express lumbered at a snail’s pace along the tracks, trudging slowly with gentle ease as it retreated from Platform 9 ¾. On the platform, grey and dim in the afternoon light, a scattered group of parents stood waving, tear stains dotting their cheeks. 

Steam rose noisily from the smokestack, pouring out in bursts of somewhat sooty-colored clouds boxed in puffs of white, and drifting downward to conceal the gold letters that gave the train its name. The red paint on the body of the train chipped and peeled, though it was still magnificent, still the same, old magical beast that carried children to Hogwarts— a place where they would go to live out the best years of their lives. 

Somewhere, in one of the many crowded compartments that were spread throughout the Hogwarts Express, Harry Potter sat quietly amongst his friends. His forehead rested against the window as he stared across the way at other train tracks, tall shifting apartment buildings, and graffiti decorating the walls which exited from the station.

To Harry’s left, Hermione lounged — her back pressed against the same side as the sliding door, feet propped right up against Harry’s leg — a book in her lap as she twirled a strand of loose hair with her wand. She was muttering aloud in a studious whisper, enunciating the spells and incantations written on the pages, reciting them as if she was going to be immediately tested on their contents when they arrived back at Hogwarts. 

Across from them sat Ron, who was already halfway through a large pile of sweets from the trolley. Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans, Cauldron Cakes, Chocolate Frogs, Drooble’s Best Blowing Gum, Liquorice Wands, Pumpkin Pasties, Sugar Quills, and Toffees all littered the seat next to him. Empty packages and loose wrappers coated the floor surrounding his feet and every time he adjusted Harry would hear one of the many wrappers crinkle softly. 

Meanwhile, through mouthfuls of sweets, Ron was trying to recount a story that his brother Charlie had told him on a brief trip over from Romania, which only happened because of, well, Fred’s funeral. 

“Charlie said it’s getting loads crazier back there,” Ron spoke around a mouthful of Pumpkin Pastie. “They’ve got three new dragons in the past five weeks! Three! I don’t even know where they could be coming from. Wales, probably.”

Hermione sniffed at the air. “You could finish eating before speaking, honestly.”

“Who would carry the conversation then?”

“Harry,” Hermione answered. “Or me. You know, it’s such a shame to see that table manners are completely wasted on you.”

“We’re not at a table.”

“Even so! It’s quite unsettling to hear you try and say words through a mouthful of food.”

“Harry doesn’t mind it,” Ron said. 

Harry turned his face away from the window, which now overlooked the country hillside and a patchwork of fields, connected by picket and barbed wire fences, dotted with cows grazing on the bright, green grass.

“No, I agree with Hermione,” Harry said. “It  _ is _ kind of gross.”

“Whatever,” Ron replied, turning back to his sweets. 

Overhead their trunks scuffled in the loose metal racks, jumbling against one another, shifting as the train picked up speed. 

They passed lonely farmhouses, crumbling brown barns, long, green pastures, livestock, and large lakes, shimmering a dark blue in the sunlight. Firm trees stood at the water banks, tall and stoic as the train bustled past, their leaves whistling in the sharp breeze.

“How’s Charlie doing by the way?” Harry asked out of the blue. “Besides the dragons. Is he… coping alright?” 

Harry doesn’t need to elaborate further. Everyone in the compartment knew exactly what he was referring to, explanation or not. The war was a difficult subject and not one that someone typically chose to breach.

All of them had suffered greatly. Ron and Charlie had both lost a brother, after all. And although Harry had lost many people — his mother and father, Sirius, so many from the Order, Dumbledore — he hadn’t lost a brother. It was a limb that other relationships couldn’t emulate, something you didn’t realize was there until it wasn’t there anymore.

“He’s alright, I think,” Ron said. He’d quieted down, face gone slack, eyes downcast as he surveyed the mess he’d made in the compartment. Sadness, loss, desperation took shape in many forms; Ron’s had been very visible, very vandalizing. “He doesn’t talk about it, especially not in letters. I think he’s trying to pretend that nothing is wrong. That Fred is still there, working with George at the shop.”

Ron paused and kicked at the wrappers on the floor. They crinkled as they scattered, going to rest in front of Harry’s shoes. 

He continued. “But he’s not there to see what it’s like back at home. Mum’s always crying, Dad’s always crying, George, too. And I know, Charlie’s just trying to keep up with himself, focus on work, but he’s gotta figure out what we all already have.”

“And that is?”

“Fred’s gone,” Ron said. “That’s he’s really… gone.”

“Yeah,” Harry murmured as he shifted his gaze back to the view outside. It was easier not to look at sorrow manifesting. “And Ginny? How’s she?”

“Mate,” Ron said as he bit his lip to trap a dejected laugh. “Ask her yourself some time. I can’t be yours and her messenger whenever the two of you’ve got something to say. Don’t you go asking Hermione either. We already tried that once.”

“And it failed miserably,” Hermione input gravely. 

She snapped her book shut with a loud clap, the pages settling neatly beside each other once more. “But, Harry, he’s right. The two of you need to talk. Get some closure. Establish a sense of finality.”

Harry merely nodded. In truth, he’d been thinking loads about Ginny lately. 

She clouded his mind, her fiery red hair sprinkled itself throughout his dreams, his nightmares, his actions. Planting herself in vivid visions that shuddered through his body day after day. 

It started after the war, when Harry had joined the Weasley’s at the Burrow, nowhere else to go. The Dursley’s had abandoned their place, but he never thought he’d ever want to see any of them ever again. Grimmauld Place was too large and lonely, growing up from the ground that had once been Sirius’ home, Regulus’ home: the Black family home. Purity painted the walls of that place. It was sticky and reminded him too much of staking out during the war. 

No, he took to the Burrow instead. The Weasley’s were family enough to him, Harry decided. It seemed they had also decided the same: they welcomed him as a son, as a brother, and as a friend. 

During that time, Ron had often accompanied him to the Ministry during the countless Death Eater trials, interviews with _the_ _Daily Prophet_ that Harry never actually attended, and scores of tours, as everyone expected Harry to go straight into working as an Auror. But he’d already made his decision to return to Hogwarts and see the castle once more. 

When Harry wasn’t at the Ministry, he joined Arthur alongside his excursions into Muggle London on more than one occasion. He helped Molly in the kitchen scrubbing grime from bottomless pots and grouchy pans, assisted George in the storeroom of Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes, and hid away with Hermione in one of the many bedrooms scattered throughout the Burrow, simply reading.

But Harry avoided Ginny like Dragon Pox. And she avoided him right back.

“I’ve been thinking that we should make a timetable for this year,” Hermione said, her voice cutting through Harry’s thoughts, shattering the thick silence that had encircled the trio’s compartment. “Headmistress McGonagall graciously accepted us back to finish our N.E.W.T.S. and we should all be focusing very hard on trying to achieve high marks.”

“Must we?” Ron moaned. He shoved an empty packet of Bertie Bott’s Every Flavour Beans away from him, bringing his fingers up to suck away all the sugar that still coated them. “I mean, I truly am one for learning and all, but ‘Mione, we’ve not even set foot back in the castle since, oh, you know when.”

Hermione shot Ron a sour look of contempt, her bushy hair falling out of its lazy ponytail and around her narrow face. She always had a thinner look to herself after the war. It started over the summer months, her eyes darkening during June when she had taken a short trip to Australia, and when she returned her cheeks had sunken in. 

It accented her sharp cheekbones and drew an intense curiosity to her eyeliner, which was also a brand new addition to her look as she’d never worn makeup before. Though, after countless schoolmates approaching her during what everyone had called ‘funeral season,’ she had decided she had had enough of people pointing out tired she appeared.

“The Wizarding World has their eyes on us,” Hermione said in a flat tone. “ _ The Ministry  _ has its eyes on us. Tracking down a murderous megalomaniac,  _ defeating _ Voldemort, is not something that I intend to use to get… to get  _ perks _ .”

“But—” Ron started, but Hermione stuck her hand out and cut him off.

“But no,” Hermione said sharply. “I may be your girlfriend, Ronald Weasley, but I will not be doing your homework this year. If Professor Binns decides that you’re going to write twelve scrolls on… Elfric the Eager,  _ you’re _ going to write those twelve scrolls on Elfric the Eager yourself.”

Ron spluttered, unable to find a coherent set of words to string together. His mouth stood agape and for a moment he had regained his childlike sensibility.

“Technically _ I _ defeated Voldemort,” Harry said through all of Ron’s unformed words. 

Hermione rubbed at her temples. “It was a collaboration effort.”

“If you want to put it that way.”

“I am going to put it that way,” she said. “Because it was that way.”

Harry grinned cheekily at Hermione and she reciprocated the action broadly. Satisfied that both of her boys could cope without her, Hermione reopened her book and settled back down, resuming the motion of twirling her hair. 

Sometimes she could be downright terrifying, exuberantly nice, stubborn as a Hippogriff, or pliable as a wand, but Hermione was always reasonable. There was more knowledge in her brain than any book Harry had ever picked up. 

Indeed, it was true that the Wizarding World and the Ministry both had their eyes (and quills—  _ the Daily Prophet _ never seemed to slow their outrageous articles about ‘the Golden trio’) trained on Harry, Ron, and Hermione. And if Harry wanted to be an Auror, which Harry was already having second thoughts about, he’d need to get high marks on his N.E.W.T.S. 

He would need to study more, focus more, turn all his attention to his classes and limit escapades across Europe. The last one would be the easiest being that Voldemort had since been defeated, which opened up a whole new vat of possibilities. 

_ Tap, tap, tap. _

Knuckles rapped against the glass door of the compartment, a steady and alert sound, turning the attention of both Harry and Ron to the intruder. Expecting someone looking for an autograph, both were greeted gratefully by the cheerful sight of Luna, who waved, a magazine — it looked like the newest edition of  _ the Quibbler _ — pressed against her chest. She wore a familiar pair of pink and blue glasses with swirlings on either side and a smile wider than the expanse of the Great Lake. 

Hermione, who didn’t once lift her once wandering eyes from the pages of her spellbook, wordlessly swished her wand. The compartment door slid soundlessly open and Luna stepped past the threshold, her strikingly blonde hair swaying in an invisible breeze. 

“Thank you very much,” Luna gushed as she pushed a couple of Ron’s sweet wrappers aside to take a seat next to the culprit himself.

“Hey, Luna,” Harry greeted with a soft, controlled smile; all lip and no teeth.

“Harry,” Luna copied. “Ron and Hermione, too. It’s nice to see all of you returning. I am glad that so many won’t have to be alone this year.”

“It’s good to see you returning, too,” Harry said. 

Luna pulled the glasses down from her face. Her eyes sparkled behind them, entrancing Harry as he watched her curiously, eagerly awaiting her next words. 

“You know, I was wondering, and I’ve been wondering a lot lately…” Luna began. “There’s a lack of explanation for so many things, I’ve found. In fact, if you read this” — Luna gestured to  _ the Quibbler _ in her hands — “my father recently wrote about it. I have a theory that there’s something in the air making everything go hazy.”

She trailed off, her words floating around the compartment, reaching even the crooks and crannies of the little box. Her voice shifted the floorboards, shook the walls, rattled the trunks overhead. Even with a voice as quiet as hers, it seemed to reach even the deafest of ears.

“Yes, yes,” Ron said. “Whatever you say. What, pray tell, were you wondering about in the first place?”

“Oh,” Luna murmured with a smile. She had gotten distracted by something invisible to Harry’s eye. “I was wondering if any of you had seen anything odd lately. Something out of place. As if objects had been rearranged without permission. Sorted through, tossed about, unwillingly misplaced.”

Harry considered the question. “Er, not really.”

“Well, I’ve been hearing from some of the other students that their possessions are going missing. Vanished into thin air.”

“Are people stealing things from you again?” Harry asked, heat rising in his voice, trembling with every syllable. “If I find that any—”

“Oh, well thank you, Harry,” Luna blushed. “But it’s not that. I’m not missing anything as of yet, but I certainly expect to. You see, Neville’s lost a pair of gardening gloves I think his Nan gave him, Dean lost something called… well, just a pair of shoes, Hannah’s missing a bracelet — I remember her saying it was a family heirloom of sorts, Ginny’s Quidditch kit has gone, too. Oh! And Draco’s lost a book on — oh, well, he wouldn’t tell me — and some of the younger years have spoken about missing possessions as well. Usual heirlooms, little trinkets and the like. In fact, Ginny told me that a third year’s glasses have vanished. Harry, I do think you should watch out.”

Harry reached up and touched the frames of his glasses lightly, letting his fingers brush against the thin wires that curved into a neat circle. 

“Ginny is missing something?” Ron asked curiously. 

“Yes,” Luna said. “Did Nargles plug your hearing up again?”

“Oh, dear. Not this again,” Hermione muttered, shaking her head. 

Harry recounted Luna’s words in his head. “Draco? Since when are you calling Malfoy, ‘Draco?’ And… And talking to him like… wait, are you out there talking to him? Normally? Like a normal conversation. With… with  _ Malfoy? _ ”

“May I remind you, Harry Potter, that you do not control the people I talk to,” Luna said. “Nor should you control the people anyone talks to. Only yourself.”

Harry collapsed into a stunted silence as Luna turned to regard the rest of the trio, each looking back at her as if something bizarre had sprouted up in her place. Gently, she set  _ the Quibbler _ she’d been holding on the train seat beside her and tucked her wand behind her ear, curly blonde strands falling around her kind face. Her blue eyes gleamed and Harry swore, for a second, they’d been filled with a pool of unending mystery and unspoken truths. 

“And anyway, I’ve been speaking to Draco for a few weeks now,” Luna confessed. Her voice was clear and controlled. All her words seemed new, but premeditated. Known around the edges, as if already spoken, drilled into her head. But they’d never been said before, not by her, at least. 

“Merlin’s sake,” Ron moaned and covered his eyes. 

Luna paid no heed. “Although, I don’t think I’ve been one to call him Malfoy. It is quite rude to confine a person to their last name, nonetheless their family name. I call him by his first name because it sets him apart. If I were to call him Malfoy he would be one of many, but there is only one Draco and there will never be another.”

Harry scrunched up his face in discontent. It was one thing to call Malfoy ‘Draco,’ but it was another thing to decide he was worthy of any of Luna’s words. 

“That’s bloody bollocks,” Ron said and crossed his arms.

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Neither of you ever pay attention to the bigger picture, honestly. Did either of you stop to think there’s more to life than Malfoy and your sisters missing Quidditch kit?”

“Er…” Harry trailed off. 

“Of course you didn’t!” Hermione exclaimed. “The two of you are absolutely obsessed!”

“I can’t help it,” Ron said shyly. “She’s my little sister. I do care about her, you know.”

Hermione nodded, bringing with it a heavy sigh. It had been a moment since she’d turned her attention away from her book, though it still lay beside her, left open on a page of defensive spells.

“Luna,” Hermione addressed. “Is there any more you can tell us?”

“Well, as far as I know, I don’t think there’s ever been something like this before,” Luna said. “A mass series of missing items on the Hogwarts Express.”

“Could it be connected to Hogwarts?”

“That could be assumed, yes.”

“Oh, but how did it start?” Hermione wondered. “Do you think that someone is stealing things?”

“I can’t be sure,” Luna said. “Though I’m certain this is only a fairly recent development. Everyone’s quite worried. Those who are missing their possessions.”

“You know, I don’t mean…” Harry started to say but decided last minute to let his words fall mute. “Oh, nevermind.”

“Missing things, huh?” Ron said. “Hope my underpants haven’t decided to vanish last minute. That would be an absolute nightmare to deal with. Like, ‘Hey, mate, sorry to bother you, but may I borrow some briefs, mine seem to have gone missing!’ Bloody hell.”

“That might not be happening, haven’t you heard?” 

“Heard what?”

“McGonagall’s decided to put all of us so-called ‘eighth years’ in the same common room,” Harry said. “If eighteen of us are returning, we’re not all going to fit in one room.”

Ron pouted and aimed a sharp kick at Harry’s legs, striking him in the shin. A hiss slipped through Harry’s teeth and he kicked back at Ron with one, quick jab.

“Oh, stop it you two,” Hermione intervened. 

It was a petty, harmless fight, but nonetheless, Hermione always needed to be the middle-man. Harry and Ron could go on for hours, even after the initial spark had faded and they couldn’t remember what drove their child-like jests. 

“If we’re not in the same room, I’ll march right up to McGonagall and give her a piece of my mind,” Ron huffed. “She’ll be scared.”

“I’m sure she will,” Hermione muttered sarcastically. 

Ron rolled his eyes and grinned at Harry, who reciprocated the gesture, though smaller and more tense around the edges of his lips. 

“She won’t split the two of you up and you know it,” Hermione said. 

Luna hummed in agreement, a vacant tune, pressing against the air only with a gentle thrum. The atmosphere in the compartment had lifted ever so slightly. Luna’s presence always seemed to have that kind of effect. Oddly enough, it comforted Harry.

“Well, that settles that then,” Harry said. 

Ron gave him a subtle wink. “As long as we’re nowhere near Malfoy, I’m set.” 

The name came out lacking venom, but all the same, Ron had spat it out with impure intent. Though, without fail, the compartment shuddered. It was history that tainted his words and the future that failed to invent intimidation. 

Luna nudged Ron and politely asked him to clear up his trash. Finally.  _ He does know the spell, right? _

Ron muttered a quiet, “ _ Evanesco. _ ”

The conversation dwindled down into sparse comments, scattered throughout, as the slow lugging of the train traded speech for silence. In one of those quiet moments, Luna vacated the compartment, leaving the trio once more to themselves. 

Outside, the green pastures of Scotland coaxed Harry into a short, restless nap, his head pressed against the cold window of the train, bumpy with movement. His eyes fell closed with the sight of shapeless, wistful clouds dotting the sky above as they painted the inside of his eyelids. 

Harry wished at once that they would take form. It reminded him of his scarce childhood, the calm parts, the lonely parts, where he was happy for solitary moments. Although most of his past had been filled with rejection and Dudley’s endless taunts and Uncle Vernon’s constant jeers, there was a piece of Harry that still remembered sneaking out to lay in the grass during long stretches of the summertime, picking out animals that sat among the clouds.

Life seemed so much simpler then, in those short moments before Aunt Petunia came rushing out the house screaming Bloody Mary about Harry forgetting to scrub the pans until he could see his reflection staring back. 

Those thoughts stayed with Harry as he drifted off, thinking thoughts of the magic-less life before Hogwarts. He could never go back. It just wasn’t possible. Life was already so much now that he had Ron and Hermione. 


	2. chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “July is over and there’s very little trace.” — Frank O’Hara

“It’s fine.  _ He’s fine. _ ”

“Are you sure?”

“Absolutely.”

Harry awoke to the Hogwarts Express slowing as it pulled into the Hogsmeade station, the loud roar of steam alerting the passengers that they’d reached their destination. 

Beyond the compartment door, he heard the clamor of students scrambling to get past. Children of all ages roamed throughout the train and on the platform, lit by the sparkling stars dotting the evening sky. Among them, chatter bubbled and burst, laughter filling the warm night air. 

Ron stood up from his seat and pulled down all three trunks that had been resting on the metal racks overhead, heaving with hearty breaths. Next to Harry, Hermione had stowed away her book, readjusted her robes, and pushed the loose bits of hair out of her face all in a matter of seconds.

Without a word, the three of them pushed through the narrow train, filing onto the platform below. They tossed their trunks onto a growing pile of luggage, which would later be transported up to the castle.

Around them, students hurried past, cloaks swishing and swaying as they ran past, leaping up into carriages to join their friends. It all made Harry feel oddly nostalgic. And although he was experiencing Hogwarts again, the childlike glee took him back to all the years before, when he was new and magic felt like more of a gift than a responsibility.

Finally finding an empty carriage, Ron helped both Harry and Hermione up into it, where they settled in. All three of them could now see the Thestrals at the front of the carriage, breath rising from their muzzles like great steam. 

Harry sat back and wondered how many of the other students were experiencing the magnificent, sleek beasts for the first time, thinking, ‘ _ Where’d they come from? _ ’

“You okay, mate?” he heard Ron asked. His voice was soft as it reached him. 

“Yeah,” Harry answered, though his voice came out distant and hard. “I’m fine. You don’t need to worry about me all the time.”

Beside him, Hermione placed a cold hand on his arm. She gave him a worrisome smile, tentative at the corners. 

“It’s our job to worry about you,” she said. 

The carriage hadn’t started tugging them toward Hogwarts. The Thestrals seemed hesitant, hooves clomping at the ground in place. Clumps of grass and mud came up, coating their hooves, stirring them as they worked at the ground.

“And anyway, this is the first time we’ve been back since… Voldemort,” Hermione went on. “We’re just letting you know that we’re here if you need to talk, or I don’t know, just… want company or don’t want company. Just tell us and we’ll do whatever.”

“Yeah,” Ron said. “It’s hard on all of us. There’s no need to suffer solo.”

The carriage dipped as two more bodies clambered on. 

Neville and Luna met the round, crinkling eyes of Harry, who gave them a simple grin. It was good to see Neville, it had been quite a while since last. He’d even grown some in the summer months just as Hermione had.

He looked nothing like the young boy that first crossed the Black Lake in a rickety boat first year, terrified and friendless. His baby fat had all since fallen off, replaced with muscle and bravado. Neville looked stronger, braver, better. 

The war had taken its toll on him, more heavily than most, but the realization that it was over, truly and finally over, relieved him. The lack of dealing with the Carrows, protecting scores of students, and finding countless ways to fight in the resistance had been lifted from his shoulders. He was free. They were all free. 

“Hey, Neville,” Harry greeted. “It’s been a minute.”

“Harry!” Neville beamed. “Good to see that I’m not alone here this year. I saw Dean and Seamus back on the train. Turns out they’re together.”

“I fucking knew it!” Ron celebrated under his breath. 

He’d been betting with Harry on whether the two Gryffindors would get together. It had been Harry’s lack of believing Dean and Seamus were gay that lost him the bet, it turned out. 

Neville carried on. “I’m hoping it’ll be like before. All of us Gryffindors together.”

“Well don’t jinx it,” Harry said. 

“I’ll try not to,” Neville replied, clapping him on the back with a laugh. 

The carriage started to move, the Thestrals strutting at a steady pace. 

Around the five students, the trees climbed higher, the branches dipped lower, and the leaves darkened with every minute. The Forbidden Forest began to take shape, looming and monstrous, growing like a disease as the pathway became lustrously illuminated with tall lanterns posted every few feet. 

Hermione fell into conversation with Ron, although Harry wasn’t interested enough to pay attention to their words. White noise thrummed through his head as he watched Neville speak to Luna about his plans for the school year. 

It was to Harry’s understanding that Neville had carried on with his heavy fascination in Herbology and would be taking up most of his classes with Professor Sprout. Or so Harry made out. 

Returning to Hogwarts, for his eighth year (newly instated and just for those who’d missed out on schooling due to the war), Harry felt, was a responsibility. Something he should uphold. It was known to get anywhere in the Wizarding World, you needed to graduate from a magical school.

Harry knew he could use his fame and fortune to keep afloat, but he despised that thought. It was unfair to his friends and to his future. It was unfair to Harry’s want to keep moving, to keep bending with the winds of the world.

Yet, even with the fact before, at least half of Harry’s year had elected not to return. There were only about half of the original number. 

And so, with the odd numbers and already crowded Common Rooms, McGonagall had owled each returning Eighth Year student with the instructions that they would all be put together in a specially constructed Eighth Year-specific Common Room. It was with the intent to boost inter-house activities, to reconnect friends, and, hopefully, establish new ones. 

The other ones, the ones not returning, had either not made it through the war (Harry shuddered inwardly at the thought), or had filed themselves away into the workforce, whatever they could get on their less than adequate schooling.

The shops in Diagon Alley didn’t require high marks on N.E.W.T.S and Harry had found several familiar faces amongst the employees at Florean Fortesqcue’s Ice Cream Parlour, Flourish and Blotts, and Quality Quidditch Supplies. Harry supposed that if the Auror thing didn’t pan out (and it was starting to look like that was the case), then he could probably shack up at Weasley’s Wizard Wheezes and help out George in the storerooms again.

“I’m starving,” Ron moaned, his voice echoing throughout the carriage. “I could eat a Hippogriff right now.” There was a quiet pause, followed by: “Not that I would.”

“Mmm,” Harry hummed, broken away from his thoughts. “I’ll have to remind Hagrid next time we go for tea to prepare some Hippogriff on the side for you.”

“You wouldn’t.” Ron shot him a look of despair. 

“Imagine the look on his face!”

“I don’t want to!” Ron complained. “I really don’t want to, mate.”

The carriage rolled over a large rock, jostling Harry and the others. Distracted once again, he returned his gaze to the Forbidden Forest, which inched further and further away. 

On the horizon, Harry could already spot Hogwarts, alight with warm, glowing light pouring out from open frames. The hundreds of windows decorating the distant castle shone in the moonlight, the towers and turrets tall and stiff.

The reconstruction of Hogwarts, it seemed, had gone incredibly well. Harry wondered how easy it would be for everyone to forget the dozens of bodies that once lay there, scattered throughout the courtyard or the bodies of friends littering the Great Hall. 

He spared a glance at Ron and wondered if it would be easy for him to stomach the food served in the same room where he had sobbed over Fred’s limp body. Harry didn’t think he’d ever be able to forget — Lupin, Tonks, Fred, and students, so many students — but he hoped his nerves would be able to settle quicker than not.

“Harry, do you want to borrow my necklace?” Luna asked.

Drawn away once more from his thoughts, Harry turned to his friend, confusion narrowing his brow.

“You seem awfully distracted tonight,” Luna said. “I think it’s the Nargles. I think they’ve made a home in your hair. It must look like a nest to them.”

Ignoring the back-handed insult, Harry said, “Oh, no. Thank you, though.”

He put his hand out to stop Luna from handing him the radish necklace that was hooked around her fingers. 

“You overthink too much,” Luna merely hummed and placed the necklace back around her own neck. She smoothed it over her chest and Harry returned his gaze to Hogwarts, which came closer and closer into view.

He reached up to try and flatten his hair some (on part from Luna’s comment), adjusting his glasses, pressing them up the bridge of his nose. 

“Feels good to be back,” Hermione said. “I mean, even after everything that happened. It’s… It’s like coming home. It always feels like coming home.”

“Yeah,” Ron agreed. “It does.”

The carriage rolled to a halt in front of the towering oak doors that led into the castle. All around, students milled to and fro, conversing as they streamed in through the double doors, warm light from inside flooding out onto the footpath.

First to jump down was Neville, dirt crunching beneath his boots as he steadied himself. He offered a generous hand to Luna, who accepted, floating lightly to the ground — her hand in Neville’s — like a woodland fairy, otherworldly and enchanting.

“Can you guys make it down alright?” Neville asked.

“Yes. We’ll be just fine.”

“Okay, good,” Neville said. “See you in the Great Hall.”

The two wandered off, following the stream of students that were starting to get more sparse as time trembled on. Soon, Harry thought, the first years in their boats would arrive. A tradition upheld for centuries.

“Are you coming?”

Ron, it appeared, had already clambered off the carriage and now beckoned to his friends with open arms. The effect of being back — standing in front the doors that hid behind it absolute misery only a few months prior — had not yet struck him.

“Oh, be patient, will you,” Hermione said, humor resting in her tone.

Harry took Ron’s hand and came off the carriage. “I don’t see why you’re worried. One way or another we’ll all get to eat.”

“And sleep,” Hermione finished, following shortly behind Harry. She looped an arm around Ron’s waist and pulled him forward. 

“Yet,” Ron said. “We have previously established that I am very impatient.”

“We’re almost inside.”

“You can wait a couple more minutes.”

Ron moaned and rubbed his stomach. “Oh, but you know the Sorting ceremony takes ages. We’ll be bones before dinner gets served.”

As they approached the double doors, Harry took a shaky breath. The castle, from this close, appeared fully restored. The large stones that had crumbled to the base of the castle, littered the courtyard and crushed trolls, were returned to their original structure.

Hogwarts looked old and untouched, as if Voldemort and the Death Eaters had never laid their hands on the school. As if death didn’t cling to the very walls, soaking the soil and contaminating the corridors.

“I hope the first years are already at least halfway across the lake,” Ron mumbled. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to sit through the Sorting without my stomach complaining.”

“Ron, you devoured half of the sweets from the trolley,” Hermione admonished. “Is your stomach just a bottomless pit?”

Ron merely shrugged in response.

“Don’t test him, ‘Mione,” Harry said. “You’re the one who decided to shack up with him. His appetite is your future.”

“Damn right it is!”

The trio passed through the gaping doors, falling all at once into the warmth of Hogwart’s halls. It was the portraits lining the walls that greeted them, waving to the returning students — although many decided the living was not worth their time.

_ Everything seems untouched _ , Harry thought.  _ It was going to be all too easy for everyone to go off and forget _ .

He followed his friends down a wide corridor and into the Great Hall. Above, the candles all glowed with an enchanting light, flickering beneath the mock sky. In front of him, the four House tables were all lined up as students meandered to their respective seats. 

Oddly enough, though not  _ not _ expected, the number of students sitting at the Slytherin table was smaller than the others. It was mostly the younger students who sat there, huddled in small groups on the long benches, leaving wide gaps that would go unfilled. 

Harry made his way to the front of the Gryffindor table, finding Neville waving at the trio to join him. He took his seat, right in front of the stool where the Sorting Hat sat limp atop it. Its patches were still frayed, eyes (or whatever could be deemed ‘eyes’) still sewn shut. 

Harry looked away. It was unnerving.

“I wonder where McGonagall will put us,” Hermione said across from Harry. 

On the table gold goblets, plates, and utensils glistened. Ron looked at the empty plates with immense sorrow. 

“Not the dungeons, I hope,” Neville shuddered. “I mean… full offense to the Slytherin’s, but… I don’t think I could stomach being that deep in Hogwarts for longer than a potions class.”

“Agreed,” Ron said. “And it gets quite cold during the winter. Not fun.”

Conversation came to a sudden halt as the entrance to the Great Hall filled with small, round faces and wide, nervous eyes. At the head of the group was McGonagall, who led the group of first years up toward the front of the room.

“She looks older,” Ron whispered to Harry. “More tired.”

“It’s been a rough year,” Harry whispered in reply. “She sure as hell refused to leave. Go away, take a break.”

“Maybe she feels a sense of responsibility, y’know, to stay at Hogwarts,” Ron said.

Harry nodded his head in agreement. “Maybe she doesn’t want anyone to feel lost. She's an inspiration.”

“For eleven-year-olds?”

“For future generations, more like.”

Ron hummed, quieting down as McGonagall passed by them, her signature green cloak swishing against the floor. She walked patiently and with a slight limp, that was only noticeable up close.

As she went by, Harry could feel all eyes fall on him. He was able to during the entire journey. Hermione had done her best to conceal their compartment — drawing the curtains across the window until they pulled away from the station, fogging up the window for those deemed ‘non-friends,’ but eyes still wandered. People still talked.

The first years were new. They hadn’t been there when Hogwarts walls fell, when its defense faltered, when Harry defeated Voldemort at last. To them, he was a legend. To them, he was only a hero and nothing more. 

Just a name that did something great. Just a person their parents told them to keep a look-out for. Just someone who did what was required of them.

He heard them whisper as they passed. Little voices floating through the air; questions and answers, awe and shock, disbelief and confusion.

“That there’s Harry Potter—”

“—Harry Potter?”

“He’s the one who defeated You-Know-Who.”

“Did he really?”

“—My mother said he’s a hero.”

“Him? He can’t be.”

The group of first years finally stopped at the front of the room, eyes wide with wonder as they gazed upon the Sorting Hat in all its drooping glory. Some of the children glanced back to stare at Harry, their minds tingling with curiosity. 

He watched as the young students shifted on their feet, nervous for what was to come. Each new student always was. 

McGonagall unraveled a short scroll, her glasses sliding to the tip of her nose. Harry could see it now, the bags beneath her eyes heavily pronounced. The droop in her shoulders grew prominent and the grey in her hair became accentuated in the light from the countless candles overhead. 

She’d lost the stiffness she’d had when Harry had first stood in front of her. Though she still carried the stern intensity of her lips, a thin slash across her mouth which made all the new first years fall quickly into line.

“Before the Sorting Ceremony begins, I have a few announcements,” McGonagall recited. Her voice echoed throughout the Great Hall as if illuminated by  _ Sonorous _ . It probably was. “First of all, I am relieved to see that all of you have elected to return to Hogwarts after last May. It is my honor, and that of Hogwarts, to welcome you all back for your studies.”

Ron rolled his eyes. Hermione sat up straighter, leaning in to hear McGonagall’s words more closely.

“To our new students,” McGonagall addressed the first years. “I welcome all of you to Hogwarts, a place I hope you will soon come to think of as a home, rather than just a school. If any of you should have a question preceding that of classes and how to get there, you will be able to turn to your house Prefects for assistance. They are there to help.”

The jittering first years had calmed and turned their worry into impatience. 

McGonagall took a deep breath before finishing. “Last of all, I am proud to introduce the first and last group of incoming eighth years, who are here because they were unable to complete their N.E.W.T.S. last year. Now, for the Ceremony. When I call your name, you will come forth. I shall place the Sorting Hat on your hand and you will be sorted into your house.”

***

“There were hardly any new Slytherins this year.”

“Why do you care?”

“Shouldn’t someone?” Harry said. 

Ron shook his head and they dropped the subject. The Sorting Ceremony had passed swiftly and without a hitch. When it concluded, each of the four tables were filled with numerous assortments of food. Lamb chops, pork chops, roast beef, roast chicken, shepherd’s pie, steak, and dozens of vegetables were displayed on large platters. The students reached out and grabbed whatever they wanted, stacking their plates as their mouths watered.

Ron immediately filled his plate with as much food as he could fit. He brought a chicken wing up to his mouth and tore off the meat, chewing loudly and delightfully. 

Hermione scrunched up her face in disgust as she spooned casserole, mashed potatoes, and greens onto her own plate. It was a wonder she’d picked Ron to fall in love with. Yet, they were perfect together— completely inseparable.

“Who do we know came back for an Eighth Year?” Harry asked.

He pushed around the unwanted sprouts on his plate. Hermione had put them there, telling Harry he needed to eat less meat and more vegetables. Harry responded by telling Hermione that Ron needed her advice exponentially more than him.

“Hmm,” Hermione hummed through a mouthful of potatoes. “Well, us four, of course. Nev’ told us he saw Dean and Seamus back on the train and no, Harry, you don’t have to give Ron five galleons. Betting is wrong and the two of you know it.”

“Damn it,” Ron mumbled.

Harry smirked, but he leaned across the table and whispered to Ron, “You’ll get your galleons later.”

Hermione smacked him on the arm. “Moving on. Luna mentioned Malfoy earlier, too. And I think Padma, Parvati’s sister, she’s in Ravenclaw, is here as well. There are others, probably, but I can hardly remember their names.”

“Bloody hell,” Ron moaned. “I can’t believe McGonagall let Malfoy come back.”

“I mean, he did help with the reconstruction of Hogwarts,” Neville said. “It was required, of course. Community service for his crimes. His dad’s shackled up in Azkaban, you know, and his mother’s on house arrest. There’s nothing he  _ can _ do.”

“Could’ve been put on house arrest with his damn mother.”

“That’s hardly fair,” Hermione intervened. “Harry  _ did _ speak at his trial.”

Ron took a swig of his pumpkin juice. “Yeah, against my wishes. What’d you say, Harry? To get him off the hook.”

“Enough,” Harry replied. “That he saved me and I saved him. That his mother saved me right back as a result because of it.”

“Probably said it with more fancy words,” Ron said. “It’s just… It’s not like he really needs his N.E.W.T.S. anyways. No one’s exactly rushing out to hire a supposed ‘ex’ Death Eater. And that’s really why we’re here again, right? We’ve come back so we can push forward. Find footing for our future. It’s not likely Malfoy has much of one anymore.”

“Let’s not talk about Malfoy,” Neville interrupted. “It’s putting me off my dinner.”

The conversation switched away from fellow students, lifelong enemies, and anything that bordered on war-related topics. It gravitated to what classes they were signed up to take this year and hoping their schedules would grant them time together.

In the end, they found out that Hermione’s schedule was filled — not a shocker to anyone — and unlike Harry, Ron, and Neville, she did not have a single free period. It was a true shame, Ron had said. 

Still quite tentative about becoming an Auror post-graduation, Harry had found himself with a relatively loose timetable. He’d signed up for the necessary classes — Defense, Potions, Charms, and Transfiguration — and, per Hermione’s advice, signed up to try some new subjects as well, such as Ancient Studies. 

He’d desperately wanted to mix things up. Maybe that would take him on the route to what he wanted to do in the future. 

Escaping to the countryside and camping out in forests with Ron and Hermione while on the run, Harry hardly had to think about graduating. In all honesty, he thought he’d die at the hands of Voldemort. 

Harry brushed these thoughts away. There was no time like the present. He needed to be here and now. With his friends. With the people who loved him.

The feast dwindled to a close and students trudged off to their respective common rooms. First years huddled near their Prefects, who took them away to discover their sleeping quarters for the next year. 

All that remained now, lingering behind in the near-empty Great Hall, were the eighth years. They were scattered sparsely throughout, separated by house tables and bad interpersonal skills.

From what Harry could gather, there were six Gryffindors, three Ravenclaws, two Hufflepuffs, followed by three more Slytherins. A whopping ten returning students. 

It was then he spotted Malfoy, hair brazen and brilliantly blond, sitting quiet and gaunt, completely alone. Blaise and Pansy, his old friends, had abandoned him to sit as far away from Malfoy as they could manage.

Harry hadn’t seen Malfoy since his trial, and he had looked far worse then; his body thin and frail, falling apart at the seams. He’d sat, chained to a chair in the middle of a large courtroom, broken and uncomfortable, as he suffered harsh scrutiny from the Wizengamot. Perhaps he’d deserved the humility, but Harry could see quite visibly the mark that had remained far long after.

“Harry,” McGonagall’s unwavering voice greeted him from behind. 

Harry turned in his seat to see his Professor, or rather, Headmistress staring down at him. She wore a kind smile, placing a hand on his shoulder in a tight grip.

“Professor.”

“Welcome back to Hogwarts,” she said before gesturing to the other three. “It’s good to see you all back as well.”

No matter how much turmoil the trio had riled up, McGonagall, deep down, contained a soft spot just for them. Harry rarely got to see it, as the Headmistress preferred her walls tall and sturdy, but there was always time for a warm and welcoming reunion.

“All of you,” McGonagall indicated to the other eighth years to come closer. 

They shuffled across the Great Hall from their tables to gather around their Headmistress, looking just as the first years had, only taller. 

“It’s good to see that all of you have elected to return,” she continued. “I hope that this final year we are all willing to strive to make it the best we can. This is a chance opportunity that the Ministry  _ and _ Hogwarts have granted each of you.”

McGonagall motioned with her hand. “Now, follow me.”

Harry rose from his seat, his friends following his lead not far behind. Taking off after McGonagall, he and the other eighth years went through the doors of the Great Hall, filing into the corridors. In the back, the Slytherins lingered a few feet behind the rest. 

It would never have been like this before. Before Voldemort’s death. Before the upper-hand had been tossed onto the ground in front of Harry’s feet.

“I apologize that I was unable to grant you access to your old common rooms, but there was no more room after the newcomers,” McGonagall said as she led the group up one flight of the twisting Hogwarts stairs. “However, I took that as an opportunity to place all of you together since there are so few of you. I hope that you might be able to collaborate in a more friendly and familiar way.”

McGonagall paused. Harry nearly bumped into her.

“I don’t want any of my students to feel alone this year,” she said. 

Her words were met with silence. Though, every single one took in the instruction with open, curious ears. Especially Hermione, who swallowed every sentence like it was the last thing she’d ever hear. 

There was knowledge to be gained in any situation, she had once told Harry. Apparently McGonagall had told  _ her _ that first. 

The group of eighth years were led to a portrait of a knight, silver armor gleaming in the torchlight. A bright field danced in the background, the grass swaying in an imaginary breeze. Clouds rolled by overhead as the knight stood stoic and unmoving, shielding the passage.

“ _ Novis Initiis. _ ”

The portrait swung open and McGonagall stepped through. Right on her heels, Harry crawled through next, with Ron and Hermione close behind.

The inside of the common room felt no different from that of Gryffindor and Hufflepuff, but not an inch similar to Slytherin and barely resembling the heart of Ravenclaw. A small fire was coiling in the fireplace, the flames barely a sizzle. Nonetheless, the room was warm throughout.

A couple of couches and robust, cozy chairs were splayed about the room. Beneath them were great shaggy carpets, tossed gently on the ground to cover the hard stone floor. It all felt choppy and thrown lazily together, but the thought was sweet and, in no time, Harry thought, it would soon adopt the personalities of each individual who would soon find themselves sprinkled in each corner of the room, playing chess or putting final touches on length essays. 

“Now,” McGonagall started as soon as everyone had gathered in the common room. “Each of you will be paired off with another student. These decisions are final. Goodnight.”

Before removing herself from the common room, McGonagall tapped her wand against a great bulletin. A scroll unraveled itself and inky black names curled across the page.

_ Seamus Finnigan and Ernie Macmillan _

_ Hermione Granger and Hannah Abbott _

_ Michael Corner and Terry Boot _

_ Ron Weasley and Blaise Zabini _

_ Pansy Parkinson and Padma Patil _

_ Neville Longbottom and Dean Thomas _

_ Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy _

“Alright,” Ron said angrily. “Who the  _ fuck _ thought this was okay?”

“Got a problem with it do you, Weasley,” Zabini spat.

Ron huffed. “I do if it’s you, snake.”

Harry stood rigid in place. His eyes trailed over the parchment once more. Perhaps he’d simply misread the words. McGonagall wouldn’t possibly place him with…  _ Malfoy _ .

But there it was, clear as day. The names Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy were right next to each other in McGonagall’s unmistakeable handwriting. 

“McGonagall’s gone mad,” Ron whispered into Harry’s ear.

“I just… she must’ve just made a mistake.”

“I just can’t believe you’re paired with Malfoy of all people.”

“Me too.”

Ron patted Harry on the back. “Well, good luck sleeping tonight. I think I’ll be keeping one eye open just in case. You should probably do the same.”

Harry pulled away from the list. It terrorized the inside of his eyelids, burning through his retinas and making him feel absolutely stone-sick. There was a raucous tingle of nerves that sparked through his body — an anger and an aching. 

He’d been blinded for so long by an outpouring of pure hatred and dislike for Malfoy and even yet, Harry had saved him from the confines of Azkaban. Rescued him from the burning scaffolding of the Room of Requirement. Abandoned the lonely letter Narcissa Malfoy had owled him post-trials. 

Moving now into the deep stretches of the new common room, Harry found the thin door that protected the room he would share with Malfoy for a year. Without a second thought, Harry pushed it open and ducked inside.

His trunk was already at the foot of his bed, beside a gaping window. Tonight it looked out across the starry sky, a black expanse of nothing and nothing until… constellations, bright and glittering. Planets danced in the distance, only specks of light. Somewhere out there something was dying in a beautiful array of color and gas and emptiness.

Harry stared out the window, vacant. He felt odd being back. Odd that he would be sharing a room with Malfoy. Odd that he did not feel welcome home. Odd that things were happening right beneath his feet, again, but this time, didn’t involve him.

As much as he always hated the attention, Harry could help but feel wanted. To be involved in the expansion of anything, anywhere. It was in his blood, coursing through his veins and making his mind tick.

Now, everything was just… normal. It didn’t bode well with Harry. The thought that everything was already beginning to seem insignificant. That all the work and all the struggle he’d endured had not been for safety, but for perseverance. That today didn’t matter, only the future. 

The future probably did matter more in the long run, but it was only a few months ago, he reminded himself, that he’d lost so many people he loved. That everyone had lost someone. That the end of a war needed, somewhere, to build a beginning. 

Ron was right, Harry  _ had _ spoken for Malfoy at his trial. In the end, he was cleared of multiple charges (the murder ones, because he hadn’t killed anyone — that was the limit of Malfoy’s grandiosity in the art of evil), slapped with community service, and limits to the usage of his magic. 

It was awkward, he supposed. To have someone you spared with over the years pull you from a ten-year-long sentence in Azkaban. 

The question remained: if Malfoy was in Harry’s place, would he have spared  _ him _ from Azkaban? The sinking realization that he probably wouldn’t have spared him fluttered in front of Harry’s face, mocking him relentlessly. A dangerous distraction from reality.

Harry swatted it from his mind for the time being and pulled a set of pajamas from his trunk. They were a few years old and getting scraggly, but Harry didn’t mind. They were his, not one of Dudley’s old pairs, and that was all that mattered.

When Malfoy entered the room, Harry was in bed, reading something about counter-curses. Harry’s eyes darted upward at his roommate, but Malfoy kept his gaze averted as he trudged into the adjoined bathroom. 

It was eerie, Malfoy being this quiet. In another life, perhaps even just two years ago, he would’ve already engaged Harry in a heated sparring match of hateful words.

Seeing Malfoy this dejected, Harry supposed he deserved it. Just a little.

It didn’t matter that Harry had vouched for Malfoy’s life in a courtroom. That couldn’t erase seven long years of childish torment. 

Harry shut his book and placed it gingerly on his bedside table along with his glasses and wand. He ran a trembling hand through his knotty hair before pulling the thick, purple blankets on his four-poster over his body.

Malfoy returned minutes later, dressed in his nightwear, but all Harry could see was a hazy form, swallowed by smallness, and his trademark blond hair, shielding away his face.


	3. chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “From her soul she can never depart;  
> She can never depart from her pain.  
> Vainly she strives to forget;  
> Beautiful in her woe,  
> She awakes in the dawn and remembers.” — At Dawn, Alfred Noyes

Harry stood defenseless, fear and panic tearing through his mind, as a cold stream of water rose upward steadily, lashing at his ankles and climbing swiftly up to the height of his knees. He shivered, clinging uselessly to the thin shirt on his back.

In front of him, reaching high into the sky so that clouds covered its true peak, was a voluminous cliff, carnivorous and catastrophic. Through the smattering of clouds appeared two glowing eyes, blood-red and violent. The eyes, Harry knew, belonged to a face of absolute monstrosity. 

Stumbling backward in the water, Harry tripped, tumbling into the sea. He scrambled to stand as the eyes walked closer to what could only be the edge of the cliff. Rocks hurtled off the cliffside, creating large splashes in the sea below. 

The sea.

It stretched on for miles and miles. Everywhere that Harry looked he could only see water. The cliff was his only sense of safety, and at the same time, tormented him with the eyes of his past and his present and his future. 

It would never end. Never… 

The blood-red eyes peered down into Harry’s own, striking him through the chest with the ferocity of a bayonet, pinning him to his spot in the sea. Desperately, Harry tried to punch outward with his arms, kick wildly with his legs, but was utterly unable to. 

A harsh scream rose and died in his throat. It was dry and scratchy, itching to bleed. 

The face grew two dark, gaping slits to form an absent nose and a wide, cavernous mouth. It’s jaw unhinged, the monstrous face almost splitting open at the action.

No sound came from the mouth. It seemed to be mocking Harry’s own silence.

The water now reached Harry’s hips and he could feel its waves beginning to tug and pull at him, grappling to hold onto his arms. Harry’s knees buckled and he went under.

Struggling to find air, Harry thrashed around in the waves, arms and legs finally able to move. And yet, he couldn’t pull himself out of the water. 

It filled his nose and crawled down his throat, choking him. Harry flailed, grasping at the surface, trying, trying,  _ trying _ . He couldn’t push himself up. I’m going to die, Harry thought.  _ I’m going to die. Again. _

Harry jolted awake.

He shoved off the purple covers and reached for his glasses, sliding them up his nose. He was sweating profusely. Beads of sweat conglomerated at his hairline, falling down his temples, soaking the armpits of his pajamas and the underside of his knees.

Harry swung himself off the bed and, shaking, made his way quietly as to not disturb Malfoy in his slumber, to their shared bathroom.

Slipping into the tiled room, Harry felt quite thankful. He hadn’t woken up Malfoy with his nightmare. Where would that have landed him? Wallowing in a pit of embarrassment for sure. 

He stared at himself in the mirror and a ghost stared back. The after-effects lingered still, the feeling of drowning too surreal to abolish from his groggy mind. 

Harry inhaled deeply, happy he was able to breathe properly.

Grabbing a cloth, he wetted it in the sink. He ran the wet cloth over his forehead and against the back of his neck, letting the cool water wash away the crudeness of the nightmarish sweat.

Sighing, Harry leaned back against the sink. He dropped the wet cloth onto the floor and covered his face with his hands, letting out a quiet sob. He’d been right. Everything wasn’t normal. 

No matter how much Hogwarts attempted to pretend it was a protected structure, an expansive castle and school filled with joyful memories and stress-inducing tests, it would always contain the dreadful memories of May. Angry students, dangerous killers, forgotten ghosts.

Treading quietly out of the bathroom, Harry returned to his bed with a glass of water from one of the sink taps. He took a hesitant sip and placed it on his bedside table next to his abandoned book, thin-wired glasses, and new wand. 

It took Harry half an hour to fall asleep again, tossing and turning as he tried to push happy thoughts to the forefront of his mind. Thoughts of the Burrow and the Weasley’s that it housed, of Sirius and his dedication to the Order, of his trips with Ron and Hermione to Hogsmeade, of things that made Harry cherish the continuation of his life.

When Harry awoke once more, the bed across from him had already been vacated. The covers were smoothed and pillows fluffed as if no one was there in the first place.

Harry slowly blinked away his bleary-eyed tiredness, rolling out of bed and shoving his glasses onto his face. He ran his fingers through his disheveled hair, yawning greatly.

With a steady hand, Harry pulled out his uniform from his trunk and quickly dressed for the day. If today was like any other day at Hogwarts, Ron and Hermione would already be in the common room waiting for him. 

Fixing up his red and gold tie, Harry grabbed his wand and headed out of the room to find his friends.

He found Hermione lounging in the common room, a piece of parchment in front of her and a quill in hand. Across the way Ron was picking at the papers on the bulletin; the list from yesterday, but bordered by a Quidditch roster, which included game-times, club names and where they met, and each house flag pinned neatly in the corner, signifying the bare minimum of inter-house unity.

“Hey, ‘Mione,” Harry greeted, voice still thick with sleep. “Whatcha got there?”

Hermione looked up, startled at first, but a gentle ease softened her features once she recognized it was only Harry. She stood up swiftly from the chair in which she sat and stuffed the parchment into her robe pocket, leaving the quill stranded on the table beside the chair, lonely, with ink drying.

“Finally, you’re awake,” Hermione said. “Ron and I have been waiting for… oh, quite some time.”

“Morning, Harry,” Ron greeted with a yawn. He came strolling over from the bulletin, his fingers picking slowly at the skin around his cuticles without notice.

“Morning.”

Hermione rolled her eyes but smiled nonetheless. “Let’s head down. There’s something we should discuss. Over some breakfast, though, because I don’t doubt the two of you are practically starving.”

“Quite true,” Ron agreed succinctly. 

And so the three of them went down to breakfast in high spirits. 

Although, the nightmare that had startled Harry during the night still lingered in the back of his mind, pressing at the dome of his skull. For a moment, brief and disconnected, Harry thought he could still feel the water swirling around his ankles, grasping at the laces on his shoes and tugging on the cuff of his jeans.

When the trio arrived at the Great Hall, glistening with morning light filtering in from the ceiling, Luna waved them kindly over to some empty seats at the Ravenclaw table. A smile, ghostly and calm, filled with nothing but soft edges, rested on her cheeks. 

Feeling it would be rude to decline her offer, the trio made their way over to her. 

“Good morning, you two,” Luna gushed in Ron and Hermione’s direction as the three friends reached the Ravenclaw table and took their seats. “You both look lovely today.”

“It’s… good to see you too,” Hermione replied.

Luna cupped Harry’s cheek, and although she was shorter than he was, it felt natural and almost sisterly. “Harry, you look unusually worried. Did you have another nightmare?”

Harry swallowed down his words.

He never attempted to hide the fact that the war impacted him negatively. Essentially, that was what made a war  _ a war _ . In muggle history it was shellshock and PTSD and limbs, shattered and scattered. In wizard history, it was almost the exact same yet pockmarked with potions to mask the damage. 

War came at a cost for every living being ensconced in its midst. Good or bad, it didn’t matter in the end. People suffered. Harry suffered. Intensely.

So naturally, everyone who loved him  _ knew _ . 

“Oh, Harry,” he heard Hermione murmur.

“Mate…” Ron trailed off. He placed a warm hand on the back of Harry’s neck, rubbing his thumb against Harry’s hairline. “You can come knock on my door if you need. Fuck Zabini’s ‘peaceful sleep.’ I know how rough they can get. You shouldn’t have to suffer alone.”

Harry dismissed them both with a curt wave of his hand. “I’m fine. I didn’t have a nightmare. Luna’s just… reading something that isn’t there.”

“If that is how you feel,” Luna said. 

“— It’s the truth,” Harry interrupted. “Now leave my dreams alone.”

Luna dropped her hand from Harry’s cheek, letting it fall gently to her side. Hermione’s face pinched, but she didn’t push Harry any further. Shrugging, Ron turned to the food in front of them. 

His eyes ached with hunger, trailing over the perfectly toasted slices of bread, an assortment of eggs — hard-boiled, soft-boiled, scrambled, sunny side up — piles of crispy bacon, grilled sausage, and bowls filled with baked beans. Heartily, Ron scooped some of everything onto his plate as Harry and Hermione copied his actions in less frantic movements.

Luna, who had taken the seat next to Harry, patted his arm softly. Her plate was empty, shiny and untouched. 

“It’s okay to have nightmares, you know,” Luna said. “You needn’t feel ashamed.”

Harry grumbled faintly. “Thanks for the optimistic words.”

“I’m quite serious.”

“So am I.”

“Don’t take me for a fool, Harry Potter,” Luna worded proudly. “Your entire existence bears the heavy weight of the Wizarding World. It is unacceptable to shut yourself away.”

“I can try,” Harry mumbled.

“That will be dangerous.”

“How so?”

“Dangerous isn’t just the action of someone threatening you,” Luna said. “Dangerous is also you threatening yourself. If you shut yourself away, you’ll never get over the war.”

Harry pushed at the food on his plate. His fried egg had burst, golden like the crown of Helios, seeping across his plate and soaking his toast. 

“I don’t want to talk about this anymore,” Harry said. 

“Talking is good.”

“Talking shouldn’t feel… strenuous.”

Luna reached out and started to card her fingers through Harry’s hair. “Okay, then I do have something we can talk about instead.”

“Shoot,” Harry mumbled.

“I have an update on the case of the missing item,” Luna said. “It seems my earrings have disappeared.”

“Oh,” Harry breathed out, picking up his toast and dipping it into the runny yolk. “Which ones?”

“The dirigible plum pair, you know them,” Luna replied.

“Oh, do I.”

“They protect you from Nargles,” Luna said. “And well… whoever has them, I hope that they are putting them to good use.”

Hermione leaned across the table. She’d been previously engaged in a gritty conversation with Ron, but had been eavesdropping since Luna mentioned the word ‘missing.’ She hadn’t exactly been… secretive about her listening. 

“Are you sure they’re missing?”

“Positively so.”

Through a spray of crumbs, Ron spoke, “Funny you should say that, actually. Discovered this morning that something of mine has gone missing as well. The bottom half of my matching Cannon pajama set have disappeared.”

“Do you think they were stolen, too?” Luna asked wide-eyed.

“Nah,” Ron replied. “Zabini comes off as ‘too refined’ to touch my lowly possessions.”

“Well, the thief, it seems,” Hermione said, “Has as much access to the Ravenclaw common room as they have to the Eighth Year common room and the Hogwarts Express. Although, none of the eighth years know the password, so it can’t be any of us.”

“Ravenclaw doesn’t require a password,” Luna said. “Only a creative mind.”

Ron grumbled. “That gets us all the way back to, oh, you know, square zero.”

Their situation was quite disagreeable. It was like searching for Voldemort’s Horcruxes and nothing like that at all. The game was afoot… or whatever Dean had said one night over a muggle board game. 

Harry, unenlightened by their lack of an epiphany, remembered suddenly Hermione’s words from earlier, “Hey, ‘Mione. Didn’t you mention you wanted to tell us something?”

“Oh, yes!” Hermione’s face filled with a pink hue. “Our class schedules are being delivered this morning and I wanted us to start planning out study hours. Per my disapproval, I know both of you have elected to take free periods. Shame on the two of you. So, I want to make sure that otherwise, you two will be prioritizing your time.”

Hermione pulled the parchment from earlier out of her pocket and displayed it gently on the table, pressing out the creases. Thin boxes were drawn out neatly to form the outline of a schedule with all three of their names written across the top.

Moaning, Ron turned a visible shade of green, finding the idea of a studying schedule about as delectable as fungi on a troll.

“In fact, here come our schedules now,” Hermione said gleefully.

Slips of parchment, rolled up and sealed with a red ribbon, fell from the sky above and into the hands of the students sitting in the Great Hall. Ron pouted, eyes scanning the parchment he’d just unraveled. 

“I’ve got Care of Magical Creatures first thing!” Ron complained.

Harry read through his. “That doesn’t sound as bad as Ancient Studies, though.”

“You’re mad for dropping, Harry,” Ron said. “Do we have  _ any _ classes together?” 

Leaning over the table, Harry looked at Ron’s parchment. “Transfiguration, Double Defense, Potions, and some more, I think.”

“Charms,” Hermione said.

“Least we’re together, ‘Mione,” Ron grinned cheekily.

Harry’s eyes flickered back and forth. “We don’t have our free period together.”

“Fucking hell.”

In fact, Harry actually  _ was _ looking forward to Ancient Studies. He’d swapped History of Magic for it. Having an actual  _ alive _ Professor seemed more beneficial than… whatever Binns called teaching. 

However, it seemed to be the one class he would not be sharing with his fellow classmates. Instead, Harry would be with the seventh years, hoping they didn’t lean on him in awe like the younger years did. 

Absentmindedly, Harry nibbled on some toast, scanning the Great Hall in curiosity. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Ginny, her glossy red-hair flashing across the way at the Gryffindor table, laughing among her friends. 

If Harry strained his ear, he could hear traces of a conversation about Quidditch and the upcoming tryouts, which would be hosted in a couple of weeks. Ginny was the Captain of the Gryffindor team now.

None of the eighth years were granted permission to try out for a position, and thus, in his sixth year, Harry's reign as Gryffindor seeker ended. 

Though, even if it were possible for Harry to continue, he wouldn’t accept. The comfort he’d found within Quidditch had faded significantly. Too many times had he tumbled from his broomstick and landed somewhere he shouldn’t.

A part of him would always love the sport, but so many memories were tainted. He would still love to fly, but he couldn’t find himself rebuilding ranks with a team.

Harry’s eyes drifted, crawling up the Slytherin table. Secluded from the rest of the younger Slytherin’s that moved cautiously around the Great Hall, was Malfoy. Alone. 

His chin rested dully on his hand, eyes drifting elsewhere. There was a lack of involvement, a lack of strength that made his body sag. Harry pulled away from staring. A part of him didn’t want to get caught— by Malfoy, or his own friends.

Greeted by the comforting sight of his friends, he watched as Hermione planted a quick kiss on Ron’s cheek. He leaned into it, a blush on his freckled cheeks. They could be married for fifty years, in old age, and Ron would still blush the same way, Harry noted.

“Come on,” Hermione said. “We’ve got class to get to.”

She turned and looked at Harry sadly.

“Ancient Studies, right?” she asked.

Harry nodded. “I’ll be fine on my own. You worry too much.”

“It’s a requirement of being your friend.”

“Whatever,” Harry chuckled softly. “Look after Ron for me now, would ya?” He added teasingly.

Ron shot him a short look of disdain before flipping him off. “Don’t forget to save me a seat in Transfiguration, dickhead.”

Harry watched Hermione tug Ron from the Great Hall, making their way out of Hogwarts and onto the front lawn where they would be attending class. It almost made Harry reconsider dropping, but Hagrid’s offer to teach the position had since been revoked and Harry wasn’t in the mood to reaccustom himself with a new Magical Creatures Professor.

“It’s a shame,” Luna muttered.

“What is?”

“Watching people walk away.”

“They’ll be back.”

Luna patted Harry’s hand. “It’s a shame nonetheless.”

“Why do you say that?”

“It reminds me of finality,” Luna said. “That there’s an end to everything.”

Harry laughed uncomfortably. “You should take up Philosophy.”

“I’ve considered it.”

Carefully, Luna eased herself off of the bench, and stood, brushing out her skirt. She ran her fingers through his hair, ruffling it some more and disappeared promptly from the Great Hall. 

Lacking any reason to stay behind, Harry headed off to class. Before he swept through the great doors he spotted Malfoy, still perched at the Slytherin table, alone and vacant. If Malfoy waited any longer, he’d be late for his first class.

***

Ancient Studies was located in a dusty classroom on the sixth-floor corridor. The Professor, an angular witch with a sharp chin, Harry had discovered was strict and coarse. Although, her rigidity was countered with a melodic voice, shifting the tone in the classroom from bored to intrigued when she delved into lectures. 

Harry’s table-mate, a seventh year Ravenclaw named Maude, prattled on about their joint assignment. It was something… something Harry would deign to care about later. There were other, more pressing things on his mind. 

What Ron and Hermione were doing. Who was stealing from everyone and why.  _ If _ it was even a person stealing. What class Malfoy had first period. 

Well, he was trying not to think about that last question. 

He turned to Maude, distracted by the brown coils of her hair bouncing in a steady momentum as she spoke. Creases formed around her eyes and lined her forehead. 

She looked scarred with memories of the war. It was in her eyes, Harry noted. 

On the way out of the Ancient Studies classroom, Maude handed Harry a piece of parchment with the terms he needed to research. He thanked her, jamming the list into his bookbag, and tore off down the corridor to Transfiguration on quick feet.

He strode by chattering portraits, all of which paused their conversations to glance at his passing figure. To avert their wandering gaze, Harry pressed on faster. 

Skipping a step on the stairs, Harry hurried onward. The moving staircases were turning at an impeccably slow pace. As he darted past, students blurred around him, eyeing him with second glances. It made Harry long for his invisibility cloak, which rested at the bottom of his trunk.

The classroom was located on the ground floor, tucked away and impossible to find. Running in at the last minute, Harry found Ron and Hermione already inside. Hermione spoke animatedly, hands twirling in front of her body as Ron watched with a faint smile. 

Hermione spotted Harry first, mouth closing with a grin. Ron turned and waved, ushering him over to the empty seat he’d saved. It was then Harry noticed Neville sitting beside Hermione, back turned, shoulders straight.

“Mate, you should be so upset you dropped Magical Creatures,” Ron gushed. 

Hermione rolled her eyes. “It was just a Snidget.”

“Just a Snidget?” Ron blanched. “They’re supposed to be extinct.”

“Yes, they are,” Harry said, baffled. 

“Because witches and wizards treated them poorly for centuries,” Hermione said. “The whole class was practically reaching their hands out to smother it. It was absolutely barbaric.”

“To you,” Ron answered.

Hermione shook her head and swerved around in her seat, bushy hair falling over the front of Ron’s desk. 

“How’d your professor even get a hold of one?” Harry asked. 

“Beats me.”

“Did anyone actually get to hold it?”

“Nah,” Ron said. “Too delicate. Anyways, how was Ancient Studies for you?”

“New,” Harry answered, tracing the grooves on his desk with his finger. “It’s kind of like History of Magic, but if the Professor wasn’t a ghost. She  _ isn’t _ a ghost, by the way. Just… a hundred times better than Binns.”

“Be honest, most professors are better than Binns.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed.

Conversation dropped, Ron turned to his bookbag and pulled out a journal. It was leather, bound by a thick string. Hermione had bought it for him after they’d gotten notice they were going to re-attend Hogwarts. 

Stealing this moment to glance outside one of the tall, looming windows, Harry saw the forest green hills of Scotland roll over the landscape, stretching far and wide into the distance. They curved and dipped, coveted streams and wildlife, harbored magical creatures and an orchard of apple trees.

Below the hills, the Black Lake swallowed the shores, still and calm, as the morning trickled slowly into the afternoon. A tentacle, slow and great, rose from the water to taste the air, and fell back into the water with a small splash.

Sitting back in his chair, Harry inhaled the scholar smell of McGonagall’s classroom: chalk coating the blackboard, ink residing in their inkwells, parchment and book pages and the depletion of the students’ attention. 

Light sprinkled in through the window, splaying across the desks and brightening the room. Dust motes floated in the open rays as Harry memorized the waltz they performed in tandem.

Ron, in a low voice, resumed the conversation.

Feigning interest, Harry tuned out Ron’s talk of flittering Snidgets, and eyed the occupants of the classroom as he waited for McGonagall to start teaching. 

In front of him, Hermione had her nose tucked deep in the required Transfiguration book assigned to the eighth years, as Neville, beside her, penned a drawing of some… fungi? Across the room, Dean and Seamus were levitating paper creatures: a hawk, a dragon, an elephant. It floated above their heads as Dean moved his wand in a steady motion.

The action was reminiscent of the owls that delivered mail each day to the Great Hall during breakfast. Seamus was laughing, his arm swung around the back of the Dean’s chair, as the paper dragon stuck out its paper tongue in his face.

Harry turned his eyes to the very front of the classroom, where he caught Draco Malfoy, hunched over, his face turned to the window. Not once had Harry seen him slouch, looking royally defeated. He was alone yet again.

Malfoy, it seemed, had also found the hills of Scotland a fascinating sight. He had his eyes, foggy and guarded, trained to the paneled glass, chin resting on the palm of his hand, fingers curled against his gaunt cheek.

Harry found himself scanning Malfoy with a detailed eye, drawn in by the oddity of the man’s supposed loneliness. The Slytherin’s hair, which had always either been slicked back to immaculate perfection with  _ Sleekeazy’s Hair Potion _ (or was it  _ Wizard’s Sculpting Gel _ ?) or brushed neatly against his forehead, looked thin, limp, and unkempt. The ends of his sweater were frayed, the left sleeve pulled far down over his wrist, and his skin more pallid than usual. Not that Harry usually took note on the appearance of Malfoy’s skin.

“Harry, are you there?” Ron said, snapping his fingers in front of Harry’s face. “ _ Harry? _ ”

“I’m awake! I’m awake,” Harry exclaimed frantically.

“Mate, are you sure you got enough sleep last night?” Ron asked. “I know rooming with Malfoy must’ve kept you on your toes all night.”

“I’m fine.”

“Is it… are you having nightmares?”

Fingers tracing the grooves of the desk again, Harry said, suspiciously, “… _ No _ ?”

“Harry, you’ve gotta come knocking when you do.”

“I know, I know. Next time, promise.”

“Good,” Ron said, sounding content with Harry’s short response. He repeated it for extra measure: “Good.”

At last, McGonagall strode in through the open doors, her cloak swishing across the floor as she made her way up to the front. Behind her, candles flickered against the walls, eradicating the shadows that the light streaming in from the windows might have missed.

Getting rid of the darkness.  _ Right, _ Harry reminded himself. That’s what Hogwarts was trying to accomplish. What McGonagall was trying to accomplish.

It was a rebirth. Hogwarts come anew. An attempt to erase the darkness and the shadows that the Death Eaters left behind. The darkness and shadows that  _ Voldemort _ had left behind. Harry shuddered inwardly. 

“I hope you all found the common room accommodating last night,” McGonagall announced. “However, there is no time to waste moving forward. All of you have returned to obtain your N.E.W.T.S., and it would serve all of you well to pay attention in each of your classes. As you know, Transfiguration is a core class and many occupations you choose to move into after Hogwarts may require an Exceeds Expectations or higher. So, I will start by pairing each of you into groups of two that may help to accentuate what you already know regarding Transfiguration.”

Several people moaned. Ron huffed audibly and slid down in his seat, crossing his arms.

“Great,” Ron grumbled. “We get one bloody class together and McGonagall’s already out to split us up.”

Harry hummed in agreement. His partner in Ancient Studies, Maude, had seemed nice enough, but she was quiet and reserved, paying attention to Harry only when needed. He had been looking forward to spending some time with Ron in the classes they shared.

“When I call you and your partner’s names, please allocate to a new desk together,” McGonagall said. “Dean Thomas and Hannah Abbott. Pansy Parkinson and Michael Corner. Ron Weasley and Draco Malfoy. Padma Patil and Neville Longbottom. Harry Potter and Hermione Granger…”

“The fuck,” Ron whispered.

Harry bit his lip to stop from laughing. 

“You get ‘Mione and I’m stuck with the fucking ferret?” 

“That’s life.”

“Life’s unfair,” Ron pouted.

“Obviously.”

Harry slid out from his seat and shuffled to the open spot beside Hermione that had recently been vacated by Neville. Behind him, Harry heard Ron audibly groan. Again.

“The ease at which you use your magic, combined, should prove useful,” McGonagall continued once everyone had been reseated. “Each witch and wizard holds their own amount of power in the palm of their hands. It flows through you just as blood. Magic is a part of your life force and it is strong and it is resilient. However, you should find that when magic is say… replicated, performed with another individual, that the strength of magic is more potent. More powerful.”

Ron tapped on Harry’s shoulder and turned around. Ron whispered, “So she pairs me with an ex-Death Eater for  _ this _ assignment. Great.”

Beside Ron, Harry caught Malfoy freeze in place. His breath hung, clenched deep in his chest. It was obvious he was trying to hide his reaction, but he did such a poor job, Harry grimaced to himself. Harry, with stealthy eyes, watched as Malfoy, in a quick motion, pulled down his left sleeve slightly more.

“Now, students, I want us to start with using spells that we have already covered in past lessons,” McGonagall said. “Having an understanding of the magic required is more safe and efficient than new, unlearned magic.”

McGonagall flicked her wand and the chalk rose, dancing across the blackboard. In neat, white letters, were instructions to locate a spell for the partners to practice, as well as a page number in the textbook regarding partner magic.

“If it’s more powerful, why didn’t Voldemort use it?” Harry asked under a spiteful breath.

“Combination magic is pure magic,” Hermione said. “There’s a line you cross when you use dark magic with dark intent. Magic is often corrupted as much as it is cultivated.”

Harry thought about Malfoy sitting behind him. Would this kind of magic even work for him? 

Hermione flipped through the textbook and landed on a page with an intricate illustration of two witches holding hands. Carefully, she smoothed the pages and withdrew her wand.

“A simple spell…” Hermione muttered. 

“Lumos?” Harry suggested.

“I think that would be much too simple.”

“McGonagall wanted simple.”

Hermione licked her bottom lip. “You’re also the most powerful wizard alive right now.”

“I don’t think that’s  _ entirely _ true.”

“I know it’s not,” Hermione smiled knowingly. 

“Okay,” Harry said. “How about  _ Avis _ ?”

He thought back to Fourth Year and springy Ollivander as he tested out the champions wands. Fleur Delacour, Viktor Krum, him, and… Cedric. 

“That’ll do perfectly!”

“Good. Okay then, what’s next?” Harry asked as Hermione scanned the textbook, eyes flitting about the page, brows drawn close in earnest determination.

“Well, in order to, quote on quote, ‘link our magic,’ we first must link ourselves together. So, like illustrated in the book, probably hold hands or something. It also says to recite an incantation together, as one, so that our speech may be linked as well.”

Her fingers traced over the words in the book.

“Is that not dangerous?” Harry asked.

“To be linked?”

Harry nodded. 

“Everything in magic can be deemed dangerous,” Hermione said. “That’s why you must be responsible with your magic.”

“Oh.”

“Now,” Hermione cleared her throat. “Get out your wand.”

Harry withdrew his wand, feeling around for the wood which was new to his touch. He’d had to replace his old one and found it incredibly hard to grip the replacement. Holding out his other hand, Hermione grasped it tightly.

“Let’s just… get this over with, then,” Hermione said as she squeezed his hand.

Together, Harry and Hermione read off the incantation from the textbook, words pouring from their mouths as one, synchronizing. Their syllables and pronunciations mingled, twirling around one another as their magic became one, singular reservoir. 

Hermione glanced over at Harry, a twinkle in her eye. In response, Harry drew an uneven breath. 

“ _ Avis _ ,” they muttered together, moving their wands to form a delicate ‘ _ m _ ’ shape.

A great cloud of smoke erupted from their wands, filling the empty space in front of them with a grey, blinding fog. To accompany the smoke, a loud bang burst like thunder and Harry had to restrain himself from reaching to cover his ears.

The space where Harry and Hermione had pointed their wands had filled with a flock of birds, hovering overhead, wings beating wildly. The birds flew about the classroom, dipping and diving, until McGonagall motioned with her wand. One of the large windows came open, a gust of wind pouring in.

As soon as the birds left the classroom, pooling out of the window, and met the sky outside, they exploded into a puff of feathers.

He heard, his ear turned back, Malfoy release a pent-up breath. It tickled Harry’s neck, hot and nervous, making the hair on the back of his neck stand. Harry had to restrain himself from glancing back. 

Heart lifting, Harry tried to ignore the feeling and said, “The birds…”

“They were never really real to begin with,” Hermione whispered. “Just an amalgamation of magic sequestered into one small ball and conjured into a creature. You should know this. Nothing is born out of thin air, Harry.”

“Sometimes I feel like maybe it can,” Harry whispered back.

***

When lunch came, Harry felt himself drawn to Luna. She was fiddling with her necklace, gazing off far into the distance, eyes admiring… something unbeknownst to anyone else. 

He took the seat beside her. Ron and Hermione sat across from him, shifting closer together with every second. 

“You seem quite distracted,” Harry said to Luna. “I don’t think your Nargles defense necklace is doing its job properly.”

“Draco says the same thing, you know,” Luna replied. 

Harry blanched. 

“What’s with all this ‘Draco’ stuff, really?” Harry asked curiously as he reached for one of the sandwiches decorating the gold platters in front of them. “He’s been so quiet… and alone.”

“The other students don’t really like him—” Luna started.

“No shit.”

Luna poked him in the side. “Don’t be rude.”

“Can’t help it,” Harry shrugged. “He’s a prick.

“Well, he’s distancing himself from other students,” Luna said. “They are, I think, frightened by his presence and by isolating himself, I feel he’s trying to appear harmless. To show that he’s only back at Hogwarts to finish his schooling, graduate, and nothing more.”

“But he isn’t harmless.”

“I… yes, you’re right,” Luna gave in. “But nobody else is entirely harmless either. Many students here joined the Battle of Hogwarts. Killed Death Eaters. Your friend, Michael Corner, has killed a Death Eater. Draco has never killed anyone.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “I’m not friends with Michael Corner.”

Dropping his gaze, Harry chewed and struggled to swallow a harsh bite of his sandwich. That was the problem, wasn’t it? The ultimate question: the roadblock, the barrier, keeping him from deciding how he… how he  _ really _ felt about the presence of Malfoy.

Malfoy hadn’t killed Dumbledore when he had the chance, but he didn’t take down any Death Eaters either. He was cowardly and spineless. He didn’t stand on either side. Not completely, anyway. 

In the end, Malfoy was simply an error that the war had produced. A chess-piece that failed its exhibition. That was unable to complete its conquest.

“That doesn’t matter, though, does it?” Harry found himself saying. “He was unable to stand up against the other Death Eaters. After Voldemort declared me dead, what did he do? He walked across the courtyard to join the smiling crowd of killers.”

“He walked across for his parents,” Luna answered. “Not for Voldemort. Not against you. He wanted to spare his parents from humiliation.”

“But how are you so sure?” Harry asked stubbornly. “Why is it that you are defending him with such… with such vigor? You were held captive in his basement for fuck’s sake!”

Luna regarded his words carefully, picking up her goblet and taking a sip. There was an unknown gleam in her eyes that Harry couldn’t quite uncover. Her defense of Malfoy had bewildered him immensely.

But Harry needed to hear her out. Wanted desperately to hear her out. 

How could a person find nice things to say about Malfoy? He’d spoken at his trial, once, and briefly, but that was… that was only to prevent him from landing in an uncomfortable spot in Azkaban. No seventeen-year-old deserved Azkaban. Certainly not one that had never uttered the Killing Curse even when he could’ve.

Malfoy was… well, he was irredeemable, Harry proclaimed. He  _ was _ cowardly. He  _ was _ spineless. And that was exactly why Harry couldn’t allow him to face a death sentence. 

“The day after the Ministry acquitted Draco, he sent me a letter,” Luna said, setting down her goblet with a soft clink. “I’m sure he sent one to others as well, but I can only tell you what mine said.”

Harry paused. “Okay. What’d he say?”

“The first word he penned down was ‘sorry,’ and he wrote, inviting me to tea, so that he may get the chance to say it in person. Now, for someone like Draco, it is incredibly hard for him to apologize and so I took up his offer. We met somewhere in the Muggle part of Wiltshire, I think because he thought facing the Manor would be too much for me. I suppose a part of him was right. It is not something one would ever wish to relive, I don’t know how he still manages to live there with his mother.

Although, it was obvious he was uncomfortable around the Muggle’s, of course, but the anger and hatred on his face had since faded. I think, instead, that he was just nervous of their judgment. Draco, there, apologized again. His words were sincere, I could see from the tremor in his eyes. His hands shook. I think he hoped that I would forgive him, then, so that we both might be relieved from the pain we’d suffered.”

“Oh, enough about Malfoy’s hands,” Ron interrupted from across the table, poking his nose into their conversation like he’d been a part of it the whole time. “I had to hold his hand in Transfiguration earlier and they were all clammy. Why the hell does McGonagall think our magic is at all compatible? I can’t stand that fucking snake.”

Harry was still stuck on the idea of Malfoy in pain. Was he tortured, too?

“Perhaps it’s because you and Malfoy are both incredibly stubborn,” Hermione offered.

Ron took a jab at Hermione’s plate with his fork and stole an orange slice. “Don’t you dare list any kind of qualities I might share with Malfoy. Ever. It’s insulting.”

“Whatever you say,” Hermione sang.

Harry leaned over. “Did he say anything to you at all in class?”

“Not a word,” Ron replied. “Just went along with whatever I read out of the textbook. Imagine that. A Malfoy  _ listening _ to a Weasley’s instructions. I think he’s gone mental.”

Ron returned to his food as Harry scanned the Great Hall for the lonesome Slytherin. Across the way, at the Slytherin table, Harry caught a flash of blonde, but it was only a Hufflepuff girl with long, springy curls, laughing at something her friend had said.

Disappointed, he continued his search for Malfoy, turning up completely empty. Harry’s brows furrowed in confusion.

“If you’re looking for Draco, he takes his meals in the Library,” Luna said from beside him. Her voice startled Harry at first, but he nodded at her revelation and went back to eating.

Harry began to wonder whether he should actually be concerned for Malfoy and his apparent distancing from the rest of the student body or the student body, that seemed to be blissfully unaware that Malfoy was suffering in isolation. Not even Parkinson or Zabini were ever found near him.

He was his roommate. Maybe… No.  _ No _ . Harry did not want to willingly get involved in any affairs that might include Malfoy. He was a menace that had already taken up too much of Harry’s headspace during his sixth year. There was no way Harry was looking forward to any kind of a repeat of that time. 

It was distracting and Harry truly didn’t want to be distracted by Malfoy once more. Yet, the Slytherin was ever so present in his life. Never seeming to go away when Harry finally thought he’d rid himself of him.

He hoped his compulsion toward Malfoy would vanish. Someday.

*** 

Lunch soon dissolved into Double Defense, where Harry finally found himself partnered with Ron as they participated in short duels. 

The Professor was new, obviously, and wanted to assess each witch and wizard’s best abilities. Apparently it was to help further understand and improve on wand techniques as well as defensive spells, but Harry found himself getting more bored with every passing second.

Harry didn’t understand why this class was still a requirement for him. Ron and Hermione, too. They’d spent the majority of the past year on the run from Dark wizards, fighting and surviving. Were they not qualified enough already?

To answer his question, McGonagall explained to Harry that although he  _ had _ defeated Voldemort, he still needed to take Defense Against the Dark Arts as a N.E.W.T. level class. She reminded him that, ‘ _ Yes, if you are still on track to become an Auror, Potter, that Exceeds Expectations or higher is required in Defense, as well as Transfiguration, Charms, and Potions. I have no doubt that you will do well. _ ’

As the class slowly trickled to its end, Harry found himself waiting just outside the door of the classroom. He watched with stoic alertness as the rest of the eighth year class filed past, blissfully unaware of his ever-itching presence. 

Earlier, during class, Harry had whispered to Ron and Hermione to go on ahead with him. There was something he needed to do, he had told them. 

Or rather, someone he needed to talk to.

“Malfoy,” Harry greeted the Slytherin stiffly. 

He’d been the last to exit, walking slowly behind everyone else with only a single textbook tucked beneath his arm.

Malfoy stopped in his tracks, the textbook slipping from his grip. He struggled to keep the book tucked close to his side. Inhaling sharply, Malfoy corrected his slouching posture into that of an eighteenth-century aristocrat. 

Harry took note of the immediate change in demeanor. As if Malfoy was terrified to be in Harry’s presence yet again, confronted and cornered— entirely unsure of himself. He hadn’t said a word when he’d been assigned Harry’s roommate. He hadn’t said a word since long before the trial. He was like a scared, immature child.

“Potter.”

“I need to talk to you,” Harry blurted before quickly fixing himself. “Er, want to. I want to talk to you, that is.”

“Why?”

Each of Malfoy’s responses thus far had been short and stiff. He’d also neglected to move an inch since Harry had first spoken, except to push a nervous strand of hair from his face.

Not ready to answer the question, Harry said, “Let’s walk.”

Malfoy was hesitant to move, but he followed with quick steps when Harry turned to walk away. He was just the same as a lost dog. Unsure, closed off, frightened underneath it all. Wary of whatever Harry had in store to say.

“What did you want to say to me, Potter? Spit it out,” Malfoy snapped as heat tainted the edges of his words. “I have places to be, you know.”

“Like where? The Library?” Harry retorted.

Malfoy quieted.

They were traipsing through the castle, taking the longest route to the Great Hall. Or Harry was, and Malfoy was merely tagging along behind. It didn’t seem normal for Malfoy to just… go along with something, Harry thought to himself.

Harry had watched Malfoy come untethered for over the better part of a year. Watched him break down slowly, ripping apart at the seams. Watched him cry in the silence of a girl’s bathroom, bleed all over the tiled floor as water seeped around him.

This was something else entirely. A separation of Malfoy from himself. 

It unnerved Harry to the core. Yet, he desperately wanted to find out  _ why _ exactly it unnerved him the way it did. There was nothing more he needed from what this interaction could provide.

So, Harry continued in Malfoy’s prolonged silence.

“I was wondering why you haven’t said a word to me since we’ve got here,” Harry said at last to answer Malfoys question.

“It’s only been a day.”

“We share sleeping quarters now.”

Malfoy bit the inside of his cheek. “Well, for your information, Potter, since you’re so needy to hear about everything I do, I haven’t spoken to  _ anyone _ since I’ve gotten here. You’re not as special as you think.”

“No one? So not even Luna?”

He watched Malfoy flinch at these words, freezing in place. 

And Harry knew it was harsh. To try and dig away at Malfoy, chip slowly at his fragile person. But didn’t a part of him deserve it? Being a Death Eater and all. Being on Voldemort's side… and yet.

He’d apologized to Luna. That was the problem.

And that’s what Harry would exploit.  _ For the greater good _ , Harry told himself.  _ To understand, at last, Malfoy’s true intentions _ .

Because Malfoy had never once apologized to Harry, for all the years of endless bullying and torment and duress. He never once apologized to Hermione for calling her a Mudblood and belittling her every chance he got. He never once apologized to Ron for ridiculing him and his family. For his lack of money. For merely being Harry’s friend.

“Don’t,” Malfoy breathed.

“Luna is one the best people I know,” Harry continued. “So I want to know what it was that you said to make  _ her _ forgive you. You know I haven’t.”

Malfoy gripped the handrail tightly as Harry eyed him up and down. The portrait they’d stopped in front of moved to watch them. 

“I don’t need you to forgive me.”

“Is that so?”

“Fuck you, Potter,” Malfoy hissed. “I apologized to her. She forgave me. Is that so difficult for you and your pea-sized brain to accept? The Wizarding World doesn’t revolve around you, oh marvelous Chosen One.”

“What the hell, Malfoy!?”

Exhaling harshly, Malfoy replied, “You’ve become everyone’s Golden Boy, haven’t you noticed. And  _ I’ve _ become everyone’s stomping ground.”

“Maybe that’s what you deserve.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched. The muscles tensed, tightening beneath his skin. It turned Malfoy into a beacon of absolute terror. 

“Is this why you wanted to talk to me?” Malfoy asked. “To insult me?”

“You’ve done the same to me for years.”

Releasing his grip on the handrail, Malfoy raised his hand as if to slap Harry, but let it fall away last minute.

“You’re insufferable, Potter.”

“You’re a git,” Harry said stubbornly. “I regret ever speaking up on your behalf.”

Pausing, Malfoy answered quietly, “Me too.”

The fire in Harry’s eyes raged as he watched Malfoy drop his gaze to the floor. Not wanting to know what would possibly come next — tears, rage, hysteria — Harry stormed off, Malfoy’s last words thrumming through his mind. 

_ Me too _ . 

His blood was boiling, bursting and sizzling throughout his veins. How was it that Malfoy could irritate him the way he did. Get up underneath his skin and slink about, coiling around his heart like a snake and clenching it. 

What was it that Luna had seen in him? What was it that made her change her mind about Malfoy? She’d been locked in his fucking basement for fuck’s sake! Was there something about Malfoy that Harry wasn’t seeing?

_ Me too _ . What did that even mean?

He scoffed at the very thought, huffing with rage as he stalked into the Great Hall for dinner. 


	4. chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You and I are alike, I fell from the sky  
> Just like you, and the world keeps causing me grief.  
> I wasn’t what they wanted, never have been,   
> I’m a loner  
> And no one can love me.” — Everland, Velimir Khlebnikov

As dinner commenced in the Great Hall that evening, Harry continued to mull over his dreadful conversation with Malfoy. The Slytherin’s spiteful words still rummaged around in Harry’s head, destroying his appetite for his steak and kidney pie, which lay in ruins on his plate. He’d been pushing it around with his fork so much that it looked less like a steak and kidney pie and more like an abomination a troll might’ve cooked up for supper. 

“He’s such an unbearable arsehole,” Harry complained into his goblet.

Ron grunted in agreement.

“Mate, I honestly don’t know why you even tried to talk to him,” Ron said. “His ego’s so big I’m sure it blocks his brain from receiving any sensible thoughts. The snake’s gone bloody mental and you know it. Quiet all day, then one person tries to reason with him and he goes sour. Godric help us all.”

“I mean, I guess I was kind of an arsehole, too, but come on,” Harry went on. “At least I know he’s still got some punch in him.”

“Why does that matter?” 

Across the table, Hermione leaned over and shoved at Ron’s arm. His fork fell from his grasp and struck his plate with a sharp clatter.

“Hey!”

“Beat it. All three of you are arseholes,” Hermione countered. “And Harry, your little squabble, or whatever it was, with Malfoy doesn’t matter now. My mother’s ring, the one I kept after I returned from Australia… you know the one. It’s gone missing, too.”

“Fuck,” Harry whispered. “I’m sorry, ‘Mione.”

“Don’t be, we’ll find it.”

Ron waved his fork, returned to his hand in one piece, and said, “I overheard in Defense that Zabini is missing a gold pocket-watch. He elaborated several times over that it was a gold pocket-watch, too, and like… come  _ on _ .”

“Luna is right,” Hermione sighed heavily. “Something is happening at Hogwarts. Or happening to the students, at the very least. We know that it started back on the train and has continued to happen. So, wherever our belongings are going, I think this school has something to do with it.”

“This bloody school needs to give us a break,” Ron mumbled.

“Well, if it was happening on the train and now it’s happening here at Hogwarts, couldn’t a student be behind this?” Harry suggested. 

“I’m not entirely sure,” Hermione replied. “If it  _ is _ a student, they’ve been able to get into both the eighth year common room and into each separate dorm, which is protected with countless charms to say… prevent Ron from coming to see me, as boys aren’t allowed to visit the girls dorms.”

Through a mouthful of food, Ron said, “Maybe it’s two people, then.”

“That does make more sense…” Hermione trailed off. “If that’s so, and there are two thieves working in tandem, then who might be doing this? And why?”

“That’s obvious. Malfoy and Parkinson, easy,” Ron answered. “Why? One’s a complete git, one’s boot-licking cow.”

Hermione frowned. “I’m not so sure…”

“It couldn’t be them,” Harry interrupted. “Malfoy is missing something, too, Luna said. And Parkinson might be awful, but she’s not the worst person. Not enough to get called a cow,  _ Ron _ .”

“She’s still a boot-licker, though.”

“I’m not arguing that.”

Hermione tutted. “I don’t think Parkinson even hangs around Malfoy anymore, and anyways, Malfoy being a ‘complete git’ isn’t enough of a motive to go off of. Why would  _ they _ even steal random items?”

“Well, they’ve got your ring, right?” Ron said. “And Zabini’s  _ lovely _ gold pocket-watch. Maybe they’re pawning it off for money? The Malfoy’s  _ did _ have to pay a fine in regards to their role in the war.”

“That means they must also have taken your precious Chudley Cannon pajamas as well,” Hermione said. “And I’m not so sure that that particular item carries any value whatsoever.”

“ _ Hey! _ ” Ron scowled. But there was no menace residing in his freckled features, so Harry and Hermione just laughed, breaking the tension of the uncomfortable topic.

Dinner carried forth.

Above, once more, hundreds of flickering candles decorated the ceiling of the Great Hall. It made the room positively glow, illuminating every corner and every crevice. Harry tried to smile for a moment. Half to see if he could remember how and half because he wanted some form of normalcy.

The candles were too much of a reminder of the past. A reminder to when Harry, alongside Ron and Hermione and Neville, too, had first made their way through the Great Hall. Where they’d been subsequently Sorted. Where their destiny seemed a little  _ too _ pre-planned. 

He vaguely remembered turning down Malfoy’s hand in friendship now. Looking at the candles dotting the ceiling, Harry wondered how different things might’ve been if he had taken his hand. Would they even be back in this room at all?

Ron’s voice slowly drew Harry back to the present.

“Ignore what we said about the thief not being Malfoy for a minute,” Ron began. “If it were him, and him alone, couldn’t he have just Accio’d the stuff from each of the dorms? From people’s compartments on the train?”

“Well…” Hermione trailed. “There’s a few things that dispel that theory.”

Jumping in, Harry said, “We were taught this back in fourth year, you should remember, but just as we learned that  _ Accio _ can summon things we either want or need, we also learned that some objects can be protected by certain charms to prevent the very application of  _ Accio _ . You can either apply them yourself or have the objects come pre-charmed.”

“ _ Damn _ .”

“Also,” Hermione began. “Malfoy would need to know what object he wanted to take. And I’m pretty sure my ring is private knowledge. Something only you two know about.”

“Plus… it would be very obvious if someone Accio’d something large, like a book or something,” Harry said.

With all of that ringing true, Harry thought, how could they possibly narrow down their thought process to a measly student? It didn’t feel like a student at all.

In fact, this whole concept felt like  _ new _ magic. From something other than just any ordinary witch or wizard. Every theory they would come up with was easily being shot-down and uninspired. 

The notion of a thief was quickly dismissed. Fellow student? Unlikely. Some asshole prankster… it seemed like an impossible trick to pull off.

Ron was hung up on the idea that Malfoy was behind it all and somehow, though it felt like a loss to Harry’s overly suspicious nature, he couldn’t convince himself to believe it could be the Slytherin. 

The annoying, aggravating,  _ distracting _ Slytherin. Who always wanted to occupy Harry’s thoughts. 

He was truly fucked. It seemed that Harry and Malfoy would always be drawn together. Forever inexplicably linked by some unknown, bothersome Sticking Spell.  _ Bollocks _ . 

“Do you think that… well, Malfoy has been suspiciously quiet lately?” Harry offered, trying to force himself to see where Ron was coming from.

“There! Harry agrees with me,” Ron exclaimed.

But Harry didn’t  _ really _ agree with Ron. That was the problem. He’d been angry at Malfoy not that long ago, but to see him slink as far as stealing… it was so incredibly… non-Malfoy. 

Hermione shot Harry a nasty glare, reaching up and brushing stray hairs from her face, words forming at the tip of her tongue.

“Both of you are insane!” Hermione said angrily, given up on the thought of moderation. “Both of you have mentioned Malfoy’s, albeit new, stand-offish nature. Both of you accuse him of committing an act of thievery when we’ve already proven he’s a victim, not a culprit.”

Hermione turned, what felt like her whole body, to face Harry.

He suppressed a nervous gulp, biting the inside of his cheeks to keep from speaking. Maybe he really should have kept his Malfoy related thoughts to himself. They always seemed to get him into trouble.

“And Harry,” Hermione continued fervently. “I just  _ knew _ you hadn’t gotten over your weird, little obsession with him. Waiting outside the Defense classroom, to what, talk to him? Complain about it afterward? If he is such a bother to you, ignore him!”

“I bloody well can’t and you know it!” Harry almost shouted. “McGonagall has shoved us into a fucking room together. His presence will always haunt me!”

“Then don’t try and talk to him and then get upset when he doesn’t say exactly what you want him to,” Hermione retorted. “I dislike him just as much as the both of you, but you simply can  _ not _ force people into things they don’t expect and you can  _ not  _ force them to behave as you hope they will.”

“ _ Fine _ ,” Harry grumbled.

Ron patted Harry’s back and gave his shoulder a light squeeze. His hand lingered for a moment, falling away slowly and reluctantly.

“It’s alright, mate,” Ron said, sotto voce, into Harry’s ear. “I try not to disagree with Hermione often, but Malfoy’s a right git if he decides to get mad at  _ you _ .”

Harry, unable to finish the rest of the food on his plate that evening, dismissed himself from the feast earlier than usual, leaving Hermione to deal with Ron as he gorged his way through dessert.

Hogwarts at night was an entirely different world. Serene, peaceful, a place where the harsh nights from before seemed to simply wash away. Outside the windows the stars gleamed, a concealed decadence tucked away in a burning ball of gas. 

In soft whispers, the portraits eyed the lonely student that meandered through the empty corridors. Some had gone off to bed and Harry could hear the dozing against the ornate gold frames they resided in.

At night, the shifting staircases didn’t bother Harry that much anymore. It was easier to avoid catching his ankle on a vanishing stair since the eighth year common room was located on one of the lower floors, where he didn’t need to skip a staircase to prevent falling through and getting stuck until someone else showed up. 

Lucky to find the common room deserted when he got there, Harry took a seat in one of the rather large lounge chairs that the room had to offer. Watching the clock above the fireplace tick, Harry, slowly and surely, let his eyes drift shut.

***

Harry awoke dripping in sweat, still dressed in his uniform from the day before, his hair plastered to his soaking forehead. He scrambled, unsure of where he was, grabbing for something to hold onto.

Beneath his fingers he found his bedsheets, tangled and soggy. Someone had carried him to his bed, Harry realized painstakingly. 

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Harry croaked. His voice crackled with a sudden dryness. 

Desperately, he reached out his hand to pat his bedside table, scrambling for his wand and glasses. Finding his glasses first, he shoved them onto his face, blinking wildly.

Stumbling out of bed, Harry made his way to the bathroom conjoined to the dorm. He passed by Malfoy, still sound asleep, lips parted as if dreaming of something sweet. Harry sneered, stepping away.

Once more, he was alone.

Nightmare after nightmare. It never seemed to end. The tumultuous banging against his head, taking away anything happy and replacing it with torment. 

He’d won. The  _ good _ side had  _ won _ . So why was his mind still filled with all things bad?

“ _ Tempus _ .”

5:42 a.m.

Harry stripped. He peeled his sweaty uniform off and stepped into the shower, the tiles cold beneath his bare feet. 

The hot water pelted his skin and Harry closed his eyes, letting the nightmare wash away. Droplets drizzled down his face, burning, as he let them caress his cheek, trickle down his nose, slip onto his lips. He grabbed for soap, lathering his body gently, careful when he went over a scar, raised above the rest of his skin. 

As Harry washed away the suds, he wrapped his arms around his body, hugging himself. One hand pressed kindly above his breast, the other at his waist. A tear fell from his eye, joining with the spray from the showerhead, and disappearing in a puddle at his feet.

After a while Harry stepped out of the shower, wrapping a towel around his waist, and made his way across the tiled floor. 

There he looked across the way, straight into the mirror, and a reflection of solicitude stared right back. His hair would dry soon, becoming wild and errant as it did everyday. Gustling like the thrashing waves of the sea, mimicking the glinting ocean green of his eyes. 

It was uncertainty that sat within them, stirring in his irises, making the boldness of them flatten. Though that was nothing compared to his face as a whole, dimpled and pockmarked and shattered with the look of destruction. 

War had done this to him. War had done this everyone. Turned them inside out and made a mockery of them with scars, within and without.

Harry sighed, grabbing his wand off the counter and flicking it at the mirror. A fog rushed over it, turning his picture into a blurry rendition. 

Today was going to be a long day, he thought to himself with a heavy sigh.

Making his way out of the bathroom he found Malfoy awake, sitting on the edge of his bed, turned away from Harry. He was fixing his tie, fumbling with his fingers as he tried to get it right. 

“Need some help?”

Malfoy flinched, startled by Harry’s words. He turned around, ready to start a fight, and paused, spotting Harry still in a towel.

“Fuck off,” he said with a wavering voice. “I don’t need anyone’s help.”

“Okay, whatever, I was just offering,” Harry replied. 

Unraveling his tie and throwing it aside angrily, Malfoy stood up with a rigidness to his posture. “After yesterday, I don’t even know why you’re bothering talking to me. Seems like a right waste of energy, Potter.”

“A waste of energy?”

“Yes.”

“Talking to  _ you _ ?”

Malfoy's nose turned upward, keeping his gaze away from Harry. “I’m leaving.”

He stormed out of the room with haste, making sure the door slammed shut behind him with a loud bang. The door frame wiggled and Harry shrugged, turning to his trunk to find his second uniform set. 

“ _ Wanker _ .”

***

Harry had Herbology that morning, where he found himself seated next to Neville, who was eagerly perched on the edge of his stool.

The greenhouses, which had been thoroughly destroyed during the Battle, had since been restored and refurbished. Pure sunlight streamed in through the new, shimmering windows, who’s sills were home to dozens of potted plants.

Vines curved up the walls, twisting and twining, as they poured out of the windows that were substituted as a ceiling. A thin wire ran from either end of the greenhouses and on the wire were hooks, from which hung freshly planted greenery sprouting flowers. 

“Like it?” Neville asked, noticing Harry’s wandering eyes.

“Yeah,” Harry replied. “It’s new, but… er, very familiar. In a sense.”

“Professor Sprout wanted the greenhouses to keep a little bit of their original spark,” Neville said. “Luckily we got a good team to help rebuild this side of the school.”

The little anecdote made Harry smile sadly. He’d desperately wanted to help out with the reconstruction, but he had been restrained at the Ministry, sitting through countless Death Eater trials. 

In the end, not many Death Eaters escaped the clutches of Azkaban. Only some. Like Malfoy. And his mother.

_ I regret ever speaking up on your behalf _ .

_ Me too _ .

There was no simple reason for why Harry vouched for Malfoy at his trial. It stumped him just as much as anyone else. The fact of the matter was that Harry had attended school with him for, what, seven years? Been bullied and antagonized and demonized by Malfoy and his cronies. 

For Harry to speak on Malfoy’s behalf… it must have solidified the ‘Saviour’ status that Malfoy now regarded him as. Perhaps it made Malfoy feel weak that he needed someone, Harry, to be precise, to save him.

A Death Eater who couldn’t kill. Couldn’t complete Voldemort’s orders. Couldn’t fight back against Harry when Harry had taken Malfoy’s wand.

To have Harry spare him from Azkaban, it was beyond anyone's comprehension. Ron had been mortified. Hermione in shock. _The_ _Daily Prophet_ capitalized its scandalous nature. Even Harry kept rolling over the events of the trial in his head.

And yet… 

“You alright?” a familiar voice broke through his thoughts.

“I…” Harry started, startled. “Yeah, Nev. I’m good. Great.”

“ _ Righhht _ ,” Neville said suspiciously.

Currently, Professor Sprout had the class repotting some mangled looking tree-like plants. Its roots required magical soil, of which the name escaped Harry, to stay replenished and well fed.

The gloves Harry wore were coated with wet dirt and each time he dipped his hands into the pot, a nasty squelching sound could be heard. Later, Harry would come to find out, the dirt had gathered on his clothing and crawled up to coat little patches of skin at his collarbones.

“Don’t like Herbology much? Eh?” Neville carried on once it was clear Harry wasn’t going to lead any kind of conversation.

“It’s… okay,” Harry answered. “Messy. A bit loud, sometimes. It’s not like muggle gardening whatsoever, but I gather you’ve found some sort of… clarity in repotting, whatever  _ this _ is, though.”

Neville chuckled. He was elbow deep in his pot, pushing the soil around the roots of the plant. Dirt inched up his arms, but the farmhand-look suited him immensely.

“Not every part of Herbology is to be liked,” Neville said. “But yeah, there is something about the surety of plants and herbs and fungi that… grounds me. That feels second nature, you know. Like, whenever I’m out here with Professor Sprout or… just by the Lake, exploring the aquatic plant-life, that I’m doing what I was born to do. To understand and learn and help expand.”

“ _ Ah _ .”

“You want to be an Auror, right?” Neville asked.

“I did… I do,” Harry said, unsure of himself or his words. “Er, you know, I don’t really know that much anymore.”

“Really? What changed?”

“I… well, I definitely  _ fancied _ being an Auror back in fifth year and stuff, hearing all those stories from Mad Eye and Tonks, seeing them in action, but… during the war, all of it caught up to me, you know,” Harry said solemnly.

Neville shook his head, unbelieving. 

Continuing, Harry felt free at last. Finally able to hear the words and not just see them rummaging around in his head. 

“I spent months camping out, on the run, constantly in hiding. It was… disconnecting. See, like, I knew what we were doing was necessary. Staying away from Death Eaters and Voldemort, all of you guys, too, as we hunted down Horcruxes,” Harry added. “But during those months, a part of me became… detached. This stuff… it wasn’t normal. All the time, hearing the names of people murdered by Death Eaters. Innocent people. It was emotionally awakening. But where was I the entire time while people were being slaughtered? In the fucking woods, walking through abandoned footpaths, searching and searching and finding nothing.

“I’ve never found myself a patient person, that’s for sure. And that’s something that being an Auror requires. Expert knowledge on countless dark spells, skill and determination and fucking patience. I have a few good qualities that  _ do _ make me a perfect candidate for an Auror position, but… I’m not fully gonna be there, you know. I’ll want to rush in immediately, with no plan in place, just to save whoever needs saving. That’s who I am right, _ a saviour _ .”

Harry’s voice dropped suddenly and silently. He was heaving slightly, as if finally saying all of what he was thinking took away his time and breath and safety. 

No longer was Harry shielding himself behind a curtain, where everyone expected him to do something and he just… couldn’t.

“You’re a good person, Harry,” Neville finally said. “You’ve already done so much. Personally, I think that’s enough. There’s no need to prove yourself more than you already have. I see a sense of security in Herbology, for myself, but you… you need to find something where you’ll feel satisfied… and secure.”

“Thanks, I… thanks.”

“Though, I could use your help on one last thing,” Neville continued. “I’ve, er, found that one of my Herbology books has turned up missing. It was a gift from Professor Sprout, you see, she encourages my future in Herbology enthusiastically and I… it was a very special gift. You know the feeling.”

Harry pondered. “I do. Yeah.”

“It’s just… I’ve already lost an expensive pair of dragonhide gloves that cost my Nan a fortune and now one of my books, too,” Neville fretted. “I know that you’ve been talking to Ron and Hermione about all these disappearances, and… I was just wondering if you’d found anything yet.”

Harry, satisfied with his work today in class, pulled his gloved hands from his pot and shook them off. Dirt crested the inside of his fingernails, still, and he shuddered.

“We’ve talked about it, yeah,” Harry said, “But there’s nothing conclusive. Well, unless you can think of anyone skilled enough to steal from multiple dormitories and get away unseen… It’s all a matter of waiting for something to happen. For something to click.”

Neville nodded, silent.

As class concluded, Professor Sprout ushered the students from the greenhouses with grateful words. Thankful for their help in something she said was ‘practically an armies job.’

Neville stayed behind to help her clean-up, so Harry made his way up to the castle for lunch alone. 

Around him, students of all different ages milled about on the sloping front lawn. They gathered in small clumps, some daring to mingle with those in different houses. There was, however, an eerie lack of Slytherin’s among them.

Of course, that was nothing new to Harry. Slytherin’s tended to remain apart from the other houses by nature. But this was post-war times. Where many parents of Slytherin students had been on Voldemort’s side, acting as Death Eaters or natural supporters.

There was a rampant distrust in that regard. A fracture in some so-called inter-house unity. It seemed that Hogwarts would remain distantly divided, even after Harry had triumphed over Voldemort.

Striding up the flagstone pathway leading up to the entrance of the castle, Harry’s stomach growled with hunger. He desperately needed a distraction to pull his thoughts away from his conversation with Neville.

He’d have to have a talk with Ron and Hermione about it soon. They deserved to know. Ron deserved to know. 

Ron was applying for a position as Auror and he’d been quite vocal about it in the summer months. It was even more disheartening to think that part of Ron’s excitement stemmed from the idea that he would be working alongside Harry.

Upon entering the Great Hall he quickly spotted Ron and Hermione sitting side-by-side at the Gryffindor table. Ron waved him over with a large, loopy smile.

Harry replied with a cheerful wave back and zigzagged his way through the maze of students that flowed in and out of the Great Hall. Some students had taken to picnicing on the front lawn, sprawled across the expanse and sitting under trees beside the Black Lake.

On the table, plates lined from end to end were stacked high with dozens of different types of sandwiches, crisps, fruits, and other delectable dishes. Harry felt his mouth water.

He took a seat next to Ron and immediately piled some egg sandwiches onto his plate. 

“Sprout run you dry?” Ron joked.

“Neville, actually,” Harry replied as he bit down. “He’s quite the conversationalist.”

“Thinking of replacing us, are you?”

“Never.”

“Well, Neville is a very interesting person when you get to know him,” Hermione said plainly. “Did you learn anything from him? Herbology isn’t that bad when—”

“Actually,” Harry started, cutting Hermione off, “He did mention that another item of his has gone missing, but that’s not… actually, I have something else I wanted to talk to you two about. We discussed something that has been brewing in mind for a while.”

“That you and Neville are gonna to elope to Sweden and start a farm together,” Ron said, smacking a hand to his forehead. “I  _ knew _ it.”

Harry laughed, a tremble escaping his lips and joining it. He fidgeted in his seat, scarfing down the rest of his sandwich before speaking.

“ _ No _ ,” he hissed playfully. “No. I… We were actually talking about what we were going to do after Hogwarts and I told him that… I don’t think being an Auror is a good fit for me anymore.”

“ _ What? _ ” Ron’s eyes widened.

“Oh, Harry,” Hermione breathed a sigh of relief. She reached across the table and placed a hand over one of his own. “Did you think we’d be upset at that?”

“Well, Ron…”

“Mate,” Ron said. “I’ll miss you, definitely, but don’t let either of us, especially me, hold you back. I mean, we’re going to discuss the fact that you’re practically  _ abandoning _ me, but still…”

The stone that had lodged itself in Harry’s throat fell away. A steady breath thrummed through his body. He laughed. He felt light as a feather.

***

After lunch, Harry found himself in the Library, standing among the towering shelves. He had an off period and decided that now would be the best time to start working on his Ancient Studies assignment.

His fingers trailed over dusty tomes as he searched the titles on the spines for a book on the internal basics to concealment charms. Stuff from the beginning, the very invention, the idea to its creation. To put it plainly, any book Harry found with the words ‘hidden,’ any variation of ‘concealed’ or ‘disappearing,’ he pulled from the shelf.

Steadily, a tall stack rose in Harry’s arms until he was finally forced to stop searching and take a seat to flip through his large catalogue of books.

Half of the books he’d picked turned out to be unrelated to charms or spells in general and the ones that  _ were _ only briefly discussed the magical theories Harry was looking for.

Sighing heavily, Harry returned to the bookshelves to skim for more.

By the time he had gathered a few more from one section, Harry moved away from the shelf and rammed directly into someone. The books in his arms were sent tumbling to the floor in a loud commotion.

“ _ Shit! _ ” he swore. 

“Harry?” a familiar, girlish voice echoed.

Red hair slowly made its way into his vision. Collected in a ponytail, it was slung over one shoulder, which bore the Gryffindor crest just inches below.

Ginny. Oh,  _ fuck _ . It was Ginny.

“Hey, Gin,” Harry answered, embarrassed. He leaned down to reach for his scattered collection of books.

“Here, let me help.”

Together, they gathered what Harry had dropped, setting them one of the desks conjoined with the arching bookshelves. When all the books had vanished off the floor, Ginny remained in Harry’s vision, arms crossed. 

She took a deep breath. “Harry, I know you’ve been ignoring me and… I have too. But I really do think we need to talk about  _ this _ sometime.”

“This?”

“Don’t act thick,” Ginny replied haughtily. “We need to talk about  _ us _ .”

Harry rubbed the back of his neck, biting the inside of his cheeks harshly. He glanced down at the floor, at his feet, memorized the grooves in the wood panels, and returned his gaze to Ginny. She bore a look of absolute disdain.

“I… you know, I am sorry,” Harry said, feeling unsure about his word choices. “I said sorry back when we decided to break it off and… and if you  _ need _ me to say it again, I will. It’s just… There’s not much more I can go on, Gin.”

“I know you’re sorry, Harry,” Ginny said, shifting. “I’m sorry, too, but the matter of the fact is that we can’t continue to go on like this.”

“Like what?”

“Acting like the other doesn’t exist,” Ginny answered. “Ignoring what we had and what was there and what wasn’t. Breaking up… it  _ was _ mutual, but… I need my friend back. I need you not to view me as  _ just _ your ex-girlfriend.”

“That’s not how I view you,” Harry sighed.

“And you’re sure about that?”

Harry closed his eyes for a second and then continued, less brave with his words than before, “I… You’re so much more than that. It’s just… we’re detached now. It’s difficult for me to look at you and see someone I used to… love.”

“It’s the fucking same for me,” Ginny snapped, letting the tension finally flow from her body.

Harry flinched. 

Unrelenting, she went on, “But we’ve got to improve. There’s more to just the baseless romance that existed between us. We were friends first, and yes, I will always love a part of you, but not in a way that would’ve ended up making us a happy couple. Harry… I want you to promise me that we can be friends. That we can be in the same room and not just ignore one another forever.”

Harry pressed his glasses up his nose. It was a nervous tick, one that Ginny used to point it out back when they were still together.

Ginny had loved a lot of domestic, uninteresting things about Harry. She was always very kind to him. Someone he could unravel with, be soft and forever captivating.

But she was always just… that. 

Harry hadn’t meant to hold her back, but he really felt like he did. She was destined to do great things, more than Harry ever would after Voldemort. That was his shining moment. Ginny deserved one of her own, without the constant connection to  _ the _ Harry Potter restraining her.

“Yes,” Harry said finally. “I can. We can, I think. I’ll try and try, Gin. You know more than most that I care about you and Ron and Hermione more than anything. I think… trying to pretend that that wasn’t so… I think that was selfish of me.”

“I’m not fragile,” Ginny countered.

“You make that quite obvious.”

Ginny grinned before continuing. “I know you know that I’m not, but there’s always a part of me that feels like you need to be reminded of that fact. You are not the only man in my life. I was raised in a house full of brothers, all with their own fantastic dreams. I understand what being underestimated is like. I understand being kept in the shadows. But I also understand that  _ I _ am just as important. I never needed anyone to tell me that I was.”

“I’ve never said—”

“Let me finish,” Ginny interrupted. “Loving and being loved is a very different thing. I know that I don’t need anyone to make me feel… better, I guess. But I do want to be loved and love back all at once.”

“So do I.”

Ginny took a heavy breath and looked at the ground, unable to face Harry’s gaze. “And don’t take this the wrong way, Harry, just… It could never have been with you. See, I’ve found, recently, that I’d prefer to date someone signed on to the Harpies.”

“But,” Harry paused, confused. “They only let girls on that team.”

“That’s like… the whole point.”

It took Harry only a moment before realization struck and he blushed, embarrassed at how clueless he’d been. How hadn’t he realized it before?

And then Harry laughed, reaching out and wrapping Ginny into a hug.

“Hey!” she said, stunned. “What’s this about?”

“That’s…” he began. “That’s very similar to my own situation, I would say. And I know this isn’t the reason we broke up at all, at least for me, but… I think it’s quite hilarious.”

“That you’re a lesbian, too?”

Harry laughed brightly. “Not at all. I think my… odd keenness to Oliver Wood might be overlooked in that statement. As well as how hot I found Cedric and Cho at the Yule Ball.”

Ginny smacked Harry on the arm. He looked down at her startled.

“Dumbass, we were talking about being friends again,” Ginny ribbed. “Now I found out you’ve been in love with half the Quidditch players in this school! Who’s next? McLaggen? Spinnet?  _ Malfoy? _ ”

Harry shot her a stern look. Ginny merely snorted. 

“We should hit the Quidditch pitch sometime then, as friends,” she offered. “Check out the new repairs. And then the girls  _ and _ boys hovering above it.”

She turned and walked away with a wink. 

Shaking his head, Harry turned away and back to his books, as if he almost didn’t believe the conversation he just had. In fact, he’d been having an awful lot of out of the blue conversations today. 

Just wait, he thought, there’ll be more. Maybe he’d get another go at Malfoy.

_ Malfoy _ .

He knew that Ginny had just tossed his name out as a joke, but it had ruffled something at the back of Harry’s mind. In  _ love? _ And with Malfoy, of all people? Harry stuck out his tongue, feeling a bit bewildered, trying to feel… disgusted.

Shoving all thoughts of Ginny (and Malfoy) from his head, Harry focused solely on his books. A few of them that he’d collected before colliding with Ginny seemed more promising than the earlier ones.

He flicked through the pages and found what he’d spent ages looking for. Pulling out a piece of parchment and a quill from his bag, Harry began to hastily scribble down notes.

Once complete, Harry found he had a few minutes to spare before his next class and decided to skim through some of the school records that sat untouched on the bottom row of a shelf hidden near the back of the room. If their theories lacked a thief, then perhaps he could find some new ones in the Library.

Ultimately, Harry turned up empty. He was already running behind as it was, so he’d have to come back later and pry. 

He rushed from the Library, running down the corridors as fast as his legs could carry him, his feet pounding along the floor, sending off a cacophony of echoes. At last, he made it to the Potions classroom in the dungeons. He was still panting, heart beating wildly in his chest. 

He was late. And the last one to make it to class, which meant only one seat remained vacant.

Harry looked desperately toward Ron, who shrugged at him from across the room with a sorrowful ‘ _ oh well, it is what it is _ ’ frown. Sighing, Harry trudged stiffly across the classroom and planted himself in the empty seat.

Next to Malfoy.

“Hey,” Harry said in an apprehensive whisper.

Malfoy said nothing. Instead, he grumbled, displeased as much as Harry was with their current situation, and shifted away in his seat. 

Harry nodded to himself promptly, unimpressed with his tardiness leaving him stuck next to Malfoy. Just his luck.

Up at the front of the classroom Professor Slughorn stood proud in front of his desk. His tasseled cap sat lop-sided atop his head, hands clasped around his large stomach, and a warm grin spread across his fleshy face.

“Good afternoon, students,” he said, meeting Harry’s eyes. “It’s good to see some of you who decided to come back.”

Harry grimaced. It was evident who he was excluding with the word ‘some.’

Slughorn went on without hesitation. “I was going through my stores yesterday and found that I am lacking a certain potion. So I decided it would be a marvelous idea to have each of you try and concoct me a vial of it today. There is a list of ingredients upon the board and I have a special reward for those of you who are able to brew an acceptable Sleeping Draught.”

As Slughorn began to pace the room, Harry pulled out his potions textbook and began to flip through the pages. Landing on the page regarding the instructions for the Sleeping Draught, he turned to Malfoy only to notice the Slytherin still lacked his traditional green and silver striped tie.

“Er, want me to get the ingredients?” Harry asked.

Malfoy grunted what Harry accepted as a ‘yes’ and went off to Slughorn’s store reserved for the students. Quickly, he gathered what they needed, bringing it back to his and Malfoy’s station. 

He dumped the items unceremoniously in front of the cauldron and said, “Okay, it says we need to crush up some lavender and dried herbs. I can do that, so that leaves you with the easy task of heating up the cauldron and stirring.”

Harry gathered the lavender springs, placing them into a mortar. His wrist twisted as he drove the pestle against the ceramic, working away in silence. 

Next to him, Malfoy lit a small fire beneath the cauldron with a quick spell and reached across the table for a stirring rod. Harry watched him intently with a keen eye as he added some dried herbs to his mortar.

“Are we going to talk at all?” Harry asked after a few silent minutes, dumping the paste-like solution into the cauldron.

“Why should we?”

“I don’t know,” Harry replied. “You’ve got no tie and it’s just… you’re very quiet lately and you’ve never been like that so…” 

Malfoy moved his hand up gently to press at his collar. He moved his hand away, refusing to meet Harry’s face. 

“None of that is your business.”

“Well, you just… don’t seem the same. Like, you’re not as… mean.”

Malfoy’s jaw flinched, the muscles tugging in his cheek. With sharp eyes, he stared at the cauldron, which fizzed a soapy white.

“Hmm,” he muttered as he regained his stature. “Very observant, are you, Potter? You know, you’re awfully quiet yourself these days, too.”

“I am  _ not _ .”

“It’s very obvious,” Malfoy sneered as he went on. “All of your two friends stuck in long, winding conversations while you let your gaze wander the Great Hall or stare mindlessly down the corridors. What  _ are _ you day-dreaming about?”

“So you’re watching me?” Harry questioned curiously.

“ _ Oh _ , come off your high horse will you, Potter,” Malfoy blanched. “You’re just… very noticeable.”

Harry snorted, raising his wand to turn up the heat from the fire. The potion had a nice sheen to it as it simmered. Steam rose in tight, neat coils, wafting around their station, circling Malfoy like a crown.

“And…” Malfoy started, his voice a little quieter than before. “You don’t know me at all, Potter.”

“Sorry?” Harry said, confused.

Malfoy turned to Harry, hands gripping the table. His fingers were thin and long, the same dexterous hands of a pianist, or a writer. Harry was inexplicably drawn to the nervous twitch of them as Malfoy finally looked at Harry, his eyes betraying an unspoken sort of… need to be noticed.

“If you tell a soul, I will not hesitate to cut your throat in the night,” Malfoy hissed under his breath. “Golden Boy or not.”

Harry’s eyes widened. “Godric, I won’t.  _ Fuck _ .”

“I… I don’t know how to tie a tie.”

“All this,” Harry said, “For  _ that _ .”

“I’ve been trying to learn, prick,” Malfoy’s words soured gleefully. “I got close this morning and then you went and interrupted my concentration.”

“I really hate you, you know that.”

Malfoy grinned, a vicious cut of white slicing across his cheeks. “Are you going to stir or not, Potter?”

“Oh!” Harry exclaimed, startled. “Yeah, sorry.”

“Don’t apologize to me,” Malfoy sniffed.

“Well, I was just about to start sympathizing with you so you can go choke on a liquorice wand, thanks,” Harry said. 

Malfoy stiffened. “Your heart is too big.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“Potter,” Malfoy began. “Just because we are forced to share a dorm room and are now forced to share a potion doesn’t invite you to initiate conversations with me.”

“Hey, you’re the one who wouldn’t stop talking after you opened your mouth,” Harry pointed out.

Malfoy’s nostrils flared. He impatiently batted away the frizzy strands of hair that had fallen across his face in the atmosphere of the hot, damp classroom. Harry just watched, utterly entranced.

He caught himself staring and turned away, staring at the potion, which had now begun to bubble furiously.

“I… oh, shut up, Potter.”

“Besides,” Harry said. “Who else would you have a conversation with?”

Malfoy pushed Harry’s arm, but he lacked the muscle Harry had, so Harry stood rigged in place. The grin Malfoy once bore had transferred itself over to the Gryffindor.

“Flustered because I’m right?”

“Pissed because you’re not letting me focus on the task at hand.”

“ _ Sure _ ,” Harry said slyly.

The rest of Potions was a spiraling mess. At least, for Harry. 

Malfoy ended up doing the bulk of the work and their potion was a smashing success, but Harry found himself more intrigued with Malfoy’s broken barriers. Though, there was no doubt that they would be rebuilt in a day’s work.

He could enjoy the flustered look on his face for now, however. All of it made Malfoy seem more human. More reasonable and less… tormenting. If that was even possible.

As class concluded, with Hermione and Ron winning best potion, Harry turned to ask Malfoy one last question.

“So you  _ can _ tie a tie, right?”

“Absolutely not,” Malfoy replied. “Theo always did it for me.”


	5. chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “True, I have a body  
> And I cannot escape from it.” — The Complete Poems, Anne Sexton

That night, the eighth year common room was ensconced in a warm blanket of laughter. A bright fire roared in the fireplace, lighting the room with an orange hue that flickered across everyone’s face. In a plush chair, Harry relaxed. 

He glanced around the room, a smile waxing across his face, as he watched Seamus, Dean, and Neville playing Exploding Snaps, the cards erupting in glaring flashes. They laughed, concluded a match, shuffled, and started again.

Music pulsated in the background, something enchanting and harmonical and faint. A Celestina Warbeck warble, trilling with every passing note. It came from a turn-table stationed in the corner of the room, old and large.

At present, Harry himself was getting absolutely decimated in a rough game of Wizard’s Chess with Ron, who was deep in thought about his next move. Next to Ron, Hermione had snuggled her feet into the side of his thigh, and hid her face behind a book.

Earlier in the evening, Luna and Ginny had snuck down into the common room with help from Ron, and were now munching on little tea cakes as they spoke about the latest edition of  _ the Quibbler _ . Or rather, Luna spoke at length about the magazine as she fussed around with Harry’s messy hair.

He liked the feeling of her fingers tugging through his loose curls. She was gentle and well-practiced with her unequivocal sweetness. 

Ron finally made his play and Harry, without thinking much about the consequences, led a pawn to the wrong square. With a harpy-like cheer, Ron immediately launched a quick attack. 

“Mate, you’re shit at chess,” Ron said wickedly. “I don’t know why you keep agreeing to play me. You’ve never won. Not once.”

“That’s okay, Ron,” Luna mused. “Harry’s plenty good at other things.”

“Quidditch,” Ginny offered. There was an amused glint in her eyes and Harry could practically hear the names circling the words.  _ Wood. Diggory. Chang. McLaggen. Spinnet. Malfoy. _

“As well as teaching defensive magic,” Hermione interjected.

“And killing Dark Lords,” Harry finished.

Ron paused and said smartly, “You only have killed the one.”

“Don’t forget that he saved the Wizarding World in doing so,” Ginny said smartly back.

Biting his lip, Ron looked down at Harry’s crushed chess pieces and then back up at Ginny. He stole a quick glance at Harry, another at Ginny, and then back down to Harry.

“I’m surprised you two have made up.”

“It was inevitable,” Harry replied.

Ginny smiled wickedly. “I mean, he’s still desperately in love with me, but we’re working on it.”

Ron shook his head. “Someday I’ll understand the two of you, but not today.”

He stood, dusting off the front of his pants, and went over to a table that the group had officially set up as ‘the snack table.’ He swiped two bottles of firewhiskey and a chocolate from before making his way back over. 

As he took his seat once more, he handed one of the bottles to Harry ceremoniously.

Harry graciously accepted the drinking, taking a quick swig. The firewhiskey burned all the way down his throat, but it was good and left him with a warm, fuzzy feeling inside.

“I’ve done a great many things, too,” Ron continued. “See, I’m way better at Wizard’s Chess. I’ve destroyed what? Two Horcruxes. I have outsmarted Malfoy and his gang on multiple occasions. All that and more, you know.”

Hermione smacked his arm with her book. “It’s not a competition, Ronald.”

“Hey! You sided with Harry just then, I saw it.”

“I did no such thing,” Hermione sniffed and returned to her book.

Harry snorted. Ron shot him a playful glare of discontempt. 

Ron took a long swig of his own drink and turned back to Harry. A loopy smile stretched across his lips, his eyes lit up from the blazing fire. A calmness resided within him that hadn’t been there for a while.

He, Harry realized now, was attempting to block everything out. Crack jokes. Laugh and talk and fill the silence as best he could.

Luna’s fingers were still coiled in Harry’s hair. She was massaging his scalp, the soft pads of her fingertips pressing on his head, relaxing him. Harry felt centered, and light.

“We should make a list,” Luna said, her voice calm but altogether sudden.

“A list?” Harry asked as his eyes fluttered open and closed, his mind and body welcomed in a state of ease. “What for?”

“For everyone’s belongings that have disappeared,” she replied, thumbs pressing against his temples, rubbing his skin gently. “So that we know what we are looking for.”

Hermione, intrigued by the sudden change in topic, snapped her book shut and perked up. 

“Brilliant idea, Luna,” she said. “Let me go grab some parchment.”

Hermione slid off her spot on the couch and made her way over to her book bag, which was stowed away in a dark corner of the room. She withdrew a slip of parchment and a self-inking quill, her movements quick and decisive. 

“Okay, first of all, let’s start with a timeline,” Hermione said as she took a seat. (Ron had put away his Chess game to clear off the already too-small table.) “As far as we know, some of the students’ personal effects started to disappear back on the Hogwarts Express. Do we know the order of the items that disappeared?”

Luna clicked her tongue and relayed, “I was with Neville when he realized his gloves weren’t in his trunk.”

“I thought I’d left them at home,” Neville said balefully. 

His, Seamus’s, and Dean’s game of Exploding Snap had ceased and they were now gathered beside Harry and the others. Ears trained close, eyes wide with interest.

“What made you realize that you didn’t leave them at home?” Harry asked. “That they’d been stolen instead?”

Hermione tsked. “We don’t know  _ if _ anything’s been stolen or not, yet.”

Harry nodded and pursed his lips. This whole affair was only becoming a more and more confusing whirlwind. 

“Hannah,” Luna replied simply. 

She untangled her hands softly from Harry’s hair as Hermione scribbled down the beginnings of a list. Harry felt an immediate loss when Luna’s fingers vanished from his scalp. In the dim light, it was her mindless actions that made Harry feel safe, for once.

“Hannah Abbott?”

“Yeah,” Neville answered. “We’re… good friends. Got a lot in common, you know.”

“Yes, Nev, we know,” Ron interrupted impatiently. “You’ve gone and gotten yourself a girlfriend. You haven’t already told us a thousand times with your incessant gushing.”

“You and Hannah are together?” Hermione asked Neville, bewildered. 

“Yeah?” Harry answered for him, confused. “We thought you already knew.”

“Oh,” Hermione breathed as Neville blushed wildly. “Well, anyways Neville, Luna, what about Hannah made you realize Neville’s gloves were not just left behind?”

“I knew I packed them,” Neville insisted. “And when Hannah mentioned that her bracelet was also missing, it was just another confirmation that I hadn’t forgotten to pack them. You know, Hananh said she thought someone’s Niffler had gotten loose on 9 ¾’s and nicked it.”

Ron sniffed. “Why would  _ anyone _ keep that as a pet?”

“Beats me,” Harry said.

“Anything else?” Hermione asked, driving the conversation forward. 

“My pair of lucky football cleats had gone, too,” Dean mumbled. “I was planning on teaching Seamus how to play sometime. Mentioned that it was kind of similar to Quidditch, but on the ground… and with less balls.”

“Which is a right damn shame,” Seamus joked.

Dean shoved Seamus off the seat next to him and Seamus tumbled to the floor, laughing as he went. He grabbed his ribs and shook hysterically at Dean’s flush of embarrassment. Hermione simply rolled her eyes as Ron, Harry, Neville and Ginny all joned Seamus’s jovial howling.

“You should teach me how to play, then,” Ginny clipped in. 

Harry snorted. He was the only one, perhaps besides Luna, who remained stoic and forever knowing, who understood the reference Ginny was attempting to make.

Hermione grumbled and clicked her tongue. “I suppose, of course, you all  _ would _ find those vulgar jokes hilarious, but we are trying to solve this mystery. So, back to the main focus, let’s see what we’ve got and what we still need to add.”

“My dragonhide gloves.”

“Hannah’s bracelet.”

“And my football cleats,” Dean finished. He’d since helped Seamus back off the floor and onto his lap. Seamus set his head down on Dean’s shoulder as Dean slung a lanky, protective arm around Seamus’s waist. 

Hermione picked up her quill and wrote down the following. 

Her writing was a neat, cursive scrawl that Harry realized mimicked that of Professor McGonagall’s. He’d probably mention that to Ron later and have a good laugh.

“Anything else from the train?” Hermione asked Luna.

Luna’s fingers returned once more to the curls on Harry’s head. It felt, from what Harry could gather, that she was trying — and failing — to style it.

“I visited Draco’s compartment sometime during the journey,” she mused. “He was sitting alone—”

“Serves him right,” Ron huffed.

Luna ignored his comment. “—And he seemed very grateful for the company. We spoke for a while, at length, and he asked me if I might’ve seen a certain book of his lying around. Well, more like a journal. He thought one of the other students had grabbed it off him.”

Ron leaned across the table and whispered to Harry, “Sounds like Malfoy’s got himself a diary.”

Luna heard.

“Don’t be rude, Ron,” she said plainly. Ron’s face fell into a look of disdain and disgust, but he shut his mouth without further protest.

Harry rolled the information around on his tongue. “So Malfoy’s… ‘journal’ was the last known item on the train to go missing?”

“No,” Ginny said. “I noticed near the end of the journey that my kit had vanished. Into thin air, it seemed like. And as I made my way through final check-ups, as Head Girl, you know, a third year told me she’d lost her reading glasses — she’s far-sighted, you see. Said that she and her friends had torn up their compartment looking for them.”

Hermione wrote this information down in a flurry.

“Anymore?” she asked and when met with silence, continued. “Okay. When we arrived back to Hogwarts, what was the first to go? And when did those of you who lost possessions notice that they were gone?”

“The first morning back,” Luna started. “I went to go put on my earrings, to shield me from the Nargles that have been surrounding Harry lately, and they were just… nowhere.”

A pout filled out on her lips. She seemed genuinely sad and although she’d practically called him infested, Harry’s heart suddenly ached for her. 

“I was getting my robes out that morning, too,” Ron said, “And found that the bottom half of my favorite set of Cannon pajamas had gone!”

“It’s for the greater good, Ron,” Hermione replied, petting his arm gently before pulling away.

Her quill flew across the parchment, adding both the item missing, the time it was discovered to be missing, and the place where the item had been taken from. Harry hoped this would get them somewhere. That, or at least give them some semblance of a plan.

“And Ron overheard that Zabini’s lost a watch,” Hermione noted. “And I discovered that my mo- that my ring had vanished earlier this evening.”

“Er, Neville told me in Herbology this morning that one of his… one of his books on plants had gone,” Harry said. 

“Yeah, a right pain in the arse, too,” Neville added. “Especially when you’re in the middle of taking care of a plant and need the book as a guide!”

“Hey, Nev, if Audrey II kills me in my sleep, I’m going to drown you in the Black Lake,” Dean said.

Neville quirked his brow. “Huh?”

Without explanation, Hermione giggled and quickly covered her mouth with a hand to quiet her outburst. Dean grinned across the way at her. 

“Is that all?” Ginny asked. Her voice floated somewhere just behind Harry’s ear, soft, melodious, and gentle. 

And Harry knew he was finally letting her go. 

He’d been glad to run into her at the Library earlier. Glad that they sort of resolved what existed of the uneasy tension that had sat, drifting, between them for so long. 

_ Wait _ . The Library!

“I think so—” Hermione began to say.

“No,” Harry interrupted curtly. “Well, yeah, last of the missing things, but I do have something important that I should tell you all. Something related to all of this.”

“Well?” Seamus said impatiently. “Get on with it.”

“I had a free period today so I did what Hermione’s been forcing on since first year,” Harry explained. “I went down to the Library. Ran into Ginny, got some of my homework done, and afterwards, decided to do some snooping in the school records. That’s why I was late to Potions today.”

“And? What did you find out?” Ron asked, leaning in closer to hear more clearly.

“I’d be able to tell you guys if you would stop interrupting me,” Harry said stiffly. “Besides, I didn’t find anything useful while I was there,  _ but _ I didn’t have enough time to finish going through most of the records.”

Ginny deduced the rest for him. “So there still might be something there that you missed. Something that could help.”

“Wonderful!” Hermione exclaimed merrily. “Great thinking. The Library always solves everything. We can go this weekend and start to sort through the records together. It’ll be—”

Hermione was cut short by Draco Malfoy storming into the common room, his face red and angry. He’d been out past curfew, embroiled in something that had shifted his gears from calm and collected to heated and hurting.

Ron’s eyes immediately turned on the pointy blond, suspicion coating his face. 

Malfoy strode past them, not even sparing the large group a glance, as he quickly made his way to his and Harry’s shared room. His hands were clenched in fists and held tight against his body, building up to violence.

Busted lip, tousled hair, sore muscles. Malfoy had done that to Ron their first year at a Quidditch match, childish fury in his punches.

As soon as Malfoy passed through the door Ron stood, dragging Harry up with him.

“We’re gonna go see what that was all about,” he whispered, spit on his lips. 

He pulled Harry after him as they followed Malfoy’s footsteps. They tread quietly up to the door, arms pressed tight against one another.

“Will it let you in?” Harry asked under his breath.

“I’m  _ your _ guest, aren’t I?”

Carefully Ron toed the door open, shuffling inside with silent steps, Harry right on his heels. 

At the foot of Harry’s four-poster bed Malfoy was on his knees, rifling through Harry’s trunk. He pulled out articles of clothing, tossing them aside with fervor. His breaths were quick and harsh, as though tears were threatening to spill from his eyes. Angry, hot tears.

Ron’s face heated up unmeasurably, fists clenching. Harry grabbed his wrist to restrain him from recklessly launching himself at Malfoy.

“You bloody thief!” Ron bellowed, spit flying. “I fucking knew it! Stealing from Harry, are you,  _ Malfoy? _ ”

Malfoy jolted upright, springing to his feet, unsteady as he balanced himself with one of the rods on the four-poster. His eyes widened in fear… in shock. 

Harry was drawn to his trembling hands. Fingers turning white as they clutched the wooden bar as if it would protect him from criticism. 

“No,” Malfoy said stiffly. “No, I was fucking stealing from him,  _ Weasley _ . How dare you accuse me of such a thing! What the fuck are you even doing in here?”

Harry huffed. “He’s my friend.”

“I don’t want him here.”

“I do.”

Malfoy turned on Ron. “ _ Get out of here, you Weasel! _ ”

“Like hell I will,” Ron snapped. “You’re the thief. Don’t think we don’t know what you’re up to. All of Harry’s stuff, scattered across the floor.” Ron swung a finger in Malfoy’s direction. “You’re rooting through people’s stuff, taking things from them. What is it then, huh? Is it some sort of sick joke you’ve decided to put on?”

Malfoy froze.

“I’m not,” he tried to reply simply. “I wasn’t stealing from you. I haven’t taken anything from anyone!”

“Explain yourself then,” Harry said without feeling. 

Malfoy shifted his gaze back to Harry, eyes pleading. He looked nothing like the Malfoy from previous school years. Dangerous Malfoy, Horrible, Evil, Vile Malfoy, who had flaunted his wealth and status so eagerly.

Now he looked… gaunt and untethered. Like he’d come undone during and after the war, taken apart like a toy and not yet put back together. 

“I…” he breathed out, voice catching in his throat. “I, er, thought one of you might’ve taken  _ my _ book. I know you all hate me. One of you must’ve had the sick idea  _ yourselves _ to root through my trunk on the train and take my book. To… to make jokes at my expense.”

“Oh?” Ron said, a mischievous glint in his eyes. “So your book  _ is _ a diary? Now I really wish one of us had it. I can only imagine what Draco Malfoy’s deepest, darkest secrets are.”

Malfoy blanched. 

“It’s not a fucking diary, you—” he cut himself off, taking in a deep, strangled breath. “So you didn’t take it, then?”

Harry shook his head ‘no.’ Ron laughed, though not entirely humorous, just… appalled. Awestruck with the idea that he and Harry were getting — or rather had been — accused of thievery.

“Obviously not,” Ron scoffed. “All of your possessions are most likely tainted with Dark Magic anyways.”

Malfoy’s face tightened at the mention of Dark Magic and he scowled at Ron without holding back. 

It appeared, however, that Malfoy was doing anything and everything to avoid meeting Harry’s eyes again. As though if he spared Harry a single glance, he would burst into bright orange flames. 

Malfoy, it seemed, wasn’t willing to respond anymore, so Ron wrestled his wrist from Harry’s grip. Lines had burrowed themselves across his face, dipping down across his forehead. 

“This isn’t over,” he said and stormed out of the room.

Gaining his sense, Harry strode towards his trunk, pushing past Malfoy, who stood rigid in place. It was as though Devils Snare had coiled around his ankles and rooted him to the ground. 

“Back up, Malfoy,” Harry hissed. “Don’t make this worse than it already is.”

Malfoy hesitated before stepping away, retreating across the room toward his own four-poster bed. Harry watched him go before turning to stuff his clothes back from where Malfoy had pulled them out.

Something was missing.

Harry panicked, his hands flying throughout his trunk, digging around. Gone. The Marauders Map was gone.

“ _ Malfoy _ ,” Harry growled. “Did you take something from my trunk?”

It poured out of his mouth more like a statement than a question. Anger and heat pulsed through his rough voice. 

“ _ Pardon? _ ” Malfoy snapped back.

“It would look like a blank piece of parchment,” Harry said, edging closer to Malfoy, who continued to back slowly away. “Empty your pockets.”

“No,” Malfoy challenged. “Why should I? I already told you that I didn’t take anything from you! I was only looking for my book!”

There was an urgency in Harry’s eyes, it blazened like fire and reached through his irises. A spark touched his tongue and Harry moved his hand toward his pocket, fingers inching slowly toward their goal.

“You heard what I said, Malfoy,” Harry said, voice hot. “Empty out your pockets. Now.”

Harry withdrew his wand from his pocket and jabbed it in Malfoy’s direction. Malfoy shrank into himself, but he did his best to recompose, and scowled heavily at Harry’s intentions. Eyes sharp and dangerous.

“Or what?” Malfoy taunted. “Hex me? Curse me? Make me bleed across the floor like the last time?”

Harry’s hand fell, his wand clattering to the ground. 

“It’s something that’s very important to me, Malfoy,” Harry said plainly. “Like your… like your book is to you. So just empty your pockets, please. Prove that you really don’t have anything to hide and we’ll call it even for you digging around my trunk.”

Malfoy scoffed, but turned out his pockets nonetheless. They were empty. He didn’t have a single thing in his possession at present. Not even a wand. 

“See, Potter,” Malfoy said. “I don’t have your precious piece of parchment. Happy?”

Harry nodded his head curtly. “Yes, thanks.”

He dropped to the ground and picked up his wand. When he stood back up he noticed Malfoy hadn’t budged, and instead was staring at Harry curiously.

“What?”

Malfoy froze, pulled from his thoughts. “Nothing.”

Confused, Harry made his way back over to his side of the room and continued folding his clothes back up. After he finished he sat on the edge of his bed, thinking. Reminiscing. 

“Say,” Harry said suddenly. “Why were you out past curfew?”

Malfoy looked up. He’d been reading a book in his bed, sitting atop the sheets, ankles crossed. 

“I was with the Headmistress,” he answered, turning a page with the pad of his thumb. “She wanted… never mind what she wanted, it’s none of your business, Potter.”

“Sorry for asking,” Harry replied to close the gap of growing silence. 

“That’s what, the second time you’ve said ‘sorry’ to me today, Potter—” Malfoy started.

“That’s not true.”

Malfoy pushed on heartily, “—I would appreciate it if you wouldn’t. I don’t have a need for any apologies, certainly not from you. I don’t want any apologies, either. It’s like getting offered a glass of water and when you take a sip all you can taste is sand.”

“Sand?”

“It means your words are meaningless, Potter.”

Harry sucked in a strangled breath. He looked sharply at Malfoy, finally seeing him fully. Misunderstood, underestimated, a beacon of hatred — of others, if he was still like he used to be — and then peeling back another layer… hatred of himself. 

Malfoy stood bare for Harry to see. 

His blond hair thin and delicate, plastered on his forehead, cropped and unkempt. His whole body vibrated with nerves and a strong account of lonesomeness that could never be repealed. 

To put it quite plainly, Malfoy had no one. And it showed. 

“You’re right.”

“Pardon?”

“I shouldn’t be the one apologizing to you,” Harry said. “If anything, it should be you. For all the shit you put me through those past seven years. For all the shit you said and did to Ron. To Hermione. For your part in the war. For all the pain and damage you caused.”

Malfoy sat unblinking. Breath caught tight in his throat. Book discarded. 

“You should be thanking me, too, when I think about it,” Harry continued relentlessly. “I saved both you and your mother from Azkaban.”

Malfoy’s jaw clenched. “You already know I can hardly apologize now. After all, you’ve already said it too many times yourself today. I’m too stubborn to be like you.”

“You apologized to Luna,” Harry pointed out. 

“I…” Malfoy faltered. “It was different. With her. It was easier. She… she didn’t deserve all the pain that she suffered.”

“And the rest of us did?”

“No, I… no,” Malfoy’s voice was clipped. He dropped his head back on the pillow, slinging his arm over his eyes. 

Harry slipped off his bed and approached with caution, one hand, steady and unsure, held out in front of him. As if he were going to comfort the other boy. But…

_ No _ .

There were still things left unsaid that Harry was determined to bring to light. At the very least, he wanted to hear Malfoy take responsibility for his past actions. To say sorry. To show some sort of semblance of repentance. 

“Maybe I was wrong,” Harry said. “You’re right. You  _ are _ stubborn. A stubborn arsehole who can never admit he was in the wrong.”

“I’m wrong all the time,” Malfoy responded suddenly, sliding his arm away from his eyes. “It’s just… I know I’ll never get forgiveness. After supporting…  _ them _ , being on their side, I don’t think I ever deserve to  _ be _ forgiven. So what’s the point of even trying?”

Harry snorted. “Fucking second chances. And you could, yet again, still be wrong. You don’t know that I won’t forgive you. Well… I don’t think I can forgive you for many things, but I’d forgive the part of you that’s trying to be a better person.”

He paused, voice catching.

“Are you?”

“Am I what?” Malfoy looked up at Harry with soft, sad eyes. They were cold and hard like a glacier overlooking the Arctic Sea and the sadness that sat there was reserved, connected to a reservoir that gushed and gushed and gushed. 

It unnerved Harry. He’d never paid this much attention to Malfoy before.

“Trying to be better than you were before,” Harry explained. “Like… tolerating Muggles, accepting Muggleborns. Not viewing yourself as superior to them anymore.”

“Honestly, I’ve just tried to block all of it out.”

“Then start now, there’s no better time than the present,” Harry said. “I really do want to put all of this behind us, you know.”

“Really?”

Harry nodded, finally believing himself and his words. “This hatred that we’ve harbored for each other all these years… It’s never done either of us any good. It’s definitely not done  _ you _ any good.”

“Fine,” Malfoy said, testing the waters. “Okay.”

Malfoy’s stare had regained its regal, piercing gaze. It was as though he’d never been sad… or angry. Just blank and forever unreadable.

A practiced emotion. 

“I… never mind,” Malfoy started and then quit. “This is already too much. I’m getting ready for bed.”

Malfoy got up, brushing past Harry with hurried feet. 

Harry stood, mouth slightly agape, as Malfoy fled into the conjoined bathroom. He’d been hoping for more, but it seemed that Malfoy wasn’t entirely willing to open up completely yet.  _ And why should he? _ Harry thought.

Malfoy had just been accused of stealing from the other students and then forced into a conversation with Harry. And, when Harry thought about it, he realized it was probably the longest he’d ever held a real conversation with Malfoy.

There was one for the history books.

Though, before he got ready for bed himself, Harry went over toward the bathroom and knocked on the door to get Malfoy’s attention. He didn’t wait for a response.

“We’re all meeting up in the Library this weekend,” Harry said. “Join us. We’re gonna go through old school records. See if this… stealing thing… is something repetitive. Something attached to Hogwarts.”

Malfoy didn’t reply. Harry took this as a firm ‘no.’


	6. chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Not that I want to be a God or a hero. Just to change into a tree, grow for ages, not hurt anyone.” — Notes, Czesław Miłosz

The Library on Saturday dripped with a golden hue as sunlight passed through the ceiling-high windows, casting shadows on the long, broad tables and desks littering the large room. Dust motes cycled through the beams of light, drifting about in a hazy dream-like way, mesmerizing to the watcher. 

It was exceptionally warm in the Library that day and the coziness it provided enacted a sort of safe space for Harry and his large group of friends, who muddled over book spines, preening for hidden secrets embedded in the stitching. 

They had designated a sturdy, old table tucked in a hidden corner of the room to place down all the books they had selected, watching as the stack of school records grew taller and taller. Soon, they would be sifting through the pages for clues, exhausting their eyes and straining their fingers. 

Missing. Missing. Missing.

That was what they were all looking for. Eyes flicking through the dusty records, pages yellow and delicate, lace-thin between their fingers, trying to find any mention of something… missing. 

Well, not just one precise thing that happened to be missing. Many things end up missing and many things were documented. But they were looking for  _ large _ groups of missing things. Enough missing things that someone could instead insist had all disappeared in a cloud of mass hysteria, to put it plainly.

Harry was neck-deep in one of the records when he felt the presence of a newcomer leering over his shoulder. He turned his head upward expecting to see Ron or Hermione or Neville or Ginny or Luna… basically anyone who was a part of his group helping him in the search for clues embedded in old school records. 

What he was definitely not expecting was Malfoy. 

Come to help. 

A disruption in a calm afternoon haze. 

And although Harry  _ had  _ invited him, his sudden presence was antagonizing, but Harry  _ did _ feel sort of… relieved that he was here now. Not lurking in the Great Hall or fiddling around on the lawn that sloped around the castle, though it was unlikely Malfoy was keen to do either at this time.

“Hey,” Harry greeted warmly, pushing aside his hesitance, as if they had been friends all their lives. “Looks like you finally decided to make an appearance after all.”

“Well, yes,” Malfoy said prudishly. “I  _ am _ missing something, too, Potter.”

He held his noseup high, as if Harry smelled rotten.

In all honesty, Harry probably did. He’d been on a short walk around the castle earlier that morning, before the sun had risen, to clear his mind, and neglected to shower afterward. After all, he would be participating in a one-on-one Seeker match with Ginny later that afternoon. 

“Hmm, that’s  _ very _ thoughtful of you,” Harry hummed. 

His voice echoed softly through the Library in a quiet buzz. It felt almost… serene, being here on the weekend when almost no one else was. As if Harry was a posh academic with dreams of PhDs and learning the ancient dialects of Greek and Latin, or a poet who focused solely on the experiences of others in the exploits of his written exposés. 

He shook that thought from his mind. That was someone he could never be. His existence was rugged and harsh, a sharp entanglement of effects left after the war.

Malfoy nodded oddly in response, unsure of what to do with his hands. With his body.

Harry could see Malfoy’s brain fizzing, wondering whether or not he should take a seat at Harry’s table. Be among  _ Harry’s _ friends. People that he’d hated for years and who hated him right back.

“We’ve pulled out all the school records dating back decades and some dating back centuries,” Harry said as Malfoy stood, uncomfortable, behind Harry’s shoulder. “There’s a seat next to Luna. I mentioned you might be coming so she saved you a spot.”

“Okay,” Malfoy replied.

His voice fell soft. Almost unbelieving that someone would think enough about him to include him. But that was Luna. All of her charm and individuality and the dream-like perception that came with her. 

Malfoy quietly moved into the seat next to Luna, his movements cautious and agile. He carefully plucked a thin book off the stack and opened it, fingers hovering over the pages as if touching them might wither them. 

Next to Harry, Ron glanced up, a scowl dancing on his face. 

He said, sotto voce, to Harry, “You’re playing with fire. Inviting him here. He has no place among us.”

“I know you’re probably right,” Harry answered in the same, low voice. “But we could honestly use all hands on deck right now. We don’t have any clue what exactly  _ is _ happening or how it’s happening. Everything’s still just one huge mystery.”

Ron looked at him with a sour expression, unbelieving and terse. 

“I’m not saying that you  _ need _ to welcome him with open arms,” Harry continued. “I haven’t. Not yet. But he’s complicated. A thorn that’s been lodged in my side since we came to Hogwarts. Maybe this is the year I try to dig it out.”

“Whatever you say,” Ron grumbled. “I trust you. I just… I don’t trust  _ him _ .”

Their conversation dwindled down until silence overtook the Library once more. Harry didn’t really want to risk Malfoy overhearing. It would drive him away when they were just getting started on the path to… what? Repentance?

Well, whatever it was, Harry needed him here. The group did, even if they weren’t entirely keen on the idea. That’s why he had invited Malfoy over to the Library in the first place.

Harry continued to skim through the records, brushing over the long lists comparing the grades of students from the eighteenth-century and an even longer list of negligent students from the fifteenth-century, Quidditch tournaments — all the points scored between the four houses, the captains of each team throughout the years, everything about the matches, even down to the exact weather that day — from the twelfth-century and course schedules from every decade that ever was. 

His fingers trailed over the frail pages and Harry could almost feel the history embedded in the words thrumming through his veins. Centuries of magic dancing beneath the pads of his fingers, swirling among cursive lettering.

It felt like the only thing preventing him from falling entirely into the past of Hogwarts was the knowledge that he still needed to solve the mystery at hand. That, and the fact that Malfoy was sat across from him, as though Harry had been an individual worthy of kindness all Malfoy’s life and not just a stain he’d tried to tease and bully out his shirt.

“Here! I think I’ve found something,” Hermione’s voice pulled Harry harshly from the quicksand of his thoughts.

“Well?” Ron asked, a heightened curiosity tainting the edges of his words. “What is it?”

Hermione’s fingers traced over the page one last time. Imprinting them into her mind.

“A collection of items and personal tokens owned by a series of students in 1231 went missing under what was noted at the time as ‘mysterious circumstances,’” Hermione read. “Record shows that the items which went missing held an important significance to each of their owners. Those items missing were decided ‘not merely stolen’ when a couple of Professors joined the frantic students in their long, hasty search. During that time, the whole castle was searched and each individual student questioned.”

“Is that all?”

Hermione sighed. “That’s all, but it’s something, isn’t it?”

“It must be,” Ginny concluded. “It means whatever’s going, it’s attached directly  _ to _ Hogwarts.”

That was a troubling thought. That embedded in the architecture of Hogwarts was the ability for it to take. To steal from witches and wizards alike without care. To show how greedy the castle actually was. 

It took. All the time, it took. 

Memories and childhoods and bodies. Countless bodies. 

Just as there had been history threaded in the pages of the school records, history was threaded through the very foundation of Hogwarts. Coiled around the core of the school. And even now, the students here were making history. Future students would continue to make history. 

“Wait a moment.”

Hermione’s voice rattled across the table. Everyone looked up again, eyes focused on Hermione, who’s forefinger ran between two of the pages. 

“There are pages missing,” she said.

Ron’s face scrunched. “That’s rubbish. Who would want to steal some pages from the school records?”

“I mean,” Hermione said, “this was written ages ago. They could’ve been ripped out by anyone for any reason.”

“So we’re back at square one,” Harry mumbled miserably.

“Not exactly,” Hermione answered. “We know whatever it is, it’s attached to Hogwarts.”

Malfoy eye’s regained their brilliant flame. “So that must mean that somewhere in these corridors, our stuff is hiding. Concealed.” Harry often forgot he was second in their class, edging along behind Hermione. It was a good decision, he decided, bringing Malfoy along.

“Who asked for your opinion?”

Ron, it seemed, did not agree with Harry’s idea of a good decision. His words were rude and trite, cutting and reused. 

“Potter did,” Malfoy answered simply. “For your information,  _ he _ invited  _ me _ .”

Hermione rolled her eyes. “Will the both of you just shut it? Malfoy has a point. If all of this is attached to Hogwarts, embedded in  _ its _ magic, then perhaps finding it will be a lot easier than anticipated.”

“Even with missing pages?”

“Even with missing pages.”

The conversation fell away as everyone began to trickle slowly out of the Library, excited to have the rest of the day off. It was a sunny day, which meant more likely than not, everyone would be found outside on the cropped lawn.

Malfoy left not long after Seamus and Dean, cloak trailing after him in a flurry of dark curtains, swishing around his long legs as he strode. Harry watched him go, eyes trained on Malfoy’s thin and still proud figure.

It was just a habit of his. Long withstanding after seven years of hating each other and one exhausting year of, yeah, stalking. Though Harry still refused to admit any wrong-doing on his part.

Once everyone had mostly left, Harry found himself helping Ginny stuff all the school records they’d borrowed from the bookshelves back into their respectful places.

She was a strange, though familiar sight to see beside him. He found, even now — after their breakup and quintessential make-up — entranced by her presence. 

Ginny grounded Harry. Made him feel somewhat capable of love. He  _ had  _ loved her, at one moment in time, but growth was inevitable, and Harry needed to see that his future  _ was _ vast and full of opportunity for all things new. 

“Ready to go flying?” Ginny asked, shoving the last record between two thick books.

“Godric, yes.”

***

The Quidditch Pitch stood amassed in a close jumble of colors. Banners from each of the Houses hung bright and unwavering in the warm, windless afternoon air. The familiarity struck Harry and he felt a pang of excitement shoot through his veins.

He hadn’t flown for what felt like centuries.

Ginny tugged hard on Harry’s shirt, pulling him along across the grounds. He tread behind Ginny, feet shuffling on the cropped, grassy walkway as they reached the pitch.

They’d both swiped a broom from one of the storage closets. The wood was smooth and generous beneath Harry’s fingers, waxed and polished to perfection as much as a Cleansweep could muster.

Ginny dug around further until she found a practice regulated snitch. It rested between her fingers, a shimmering golden ball that sparked endless memories.

“Feeling lucky?” Harry teased.

“I’ve beat you many times before,” Ginny replied with a cheeky grin. “You don’t stand a fighting chance.”

The two players filed onto the field, the freshly trimmed grass crunching beneath their feet. The sun, bright and blinding, beat down on them with a harsh glare. Harry knew this would only heighten the difficulty of spotting the Snitch. 

Ginny mounted her broom readily and drifted upward, hovering only a few delicate feet above the ground. Harry mimicked her movement, rising steadily in the air to greet her grinning face.

“Good to be back on a broom, isn’t it?” Ginny said.

They separated slightly in distance from one another as they hung suspended in the air. The Snitch still resting between Ginny’s fingers stretched out his lace-thin wings, getting ready to dart away.

“Yeah,” Harry breathed out.

The word clung to the inside of his throat, reminding him:  _ yeah, yeah, yeah _ . It  _ was _ incredibly surreal to be back on the Quidditch pitch, on a broom — although, yes, it  _ was _ a Cleansweep, battered and slower than anything Harry was used to — facing Ginny, alive and smiling.

“Best of three?” Ginny asked.

Harry licked his lip. “Best of five?”

“Okay, good.”

Ginny released the Snitch from her grip.

It fluttered, for a second, in front of her nose, it’s spidery-thin wings bracing the afternoon air. With a quick arm, Ginny reached for it, but it zipped away — golden and glinting in the heat of the sun.

As the Snitch shot away, Ginny shot Harry another quick grin before chasing after it.

Sticky sweat clung to Harry’s brow as he rose upward, chasing after Ginny. She was fast, and easily matched Harry’s previous record-breaking speed (even on the Cleansweep).

“Why so slow, Potter?” Ginny teased, raising her voice so that it was loud and clear over the gaping distance between them, matching the intonation of one of Malfoy’s hateful taunts.

“I’m adjusting!” Harry shouted back. “Its been a minute!”

“Well, you’re not going to win anytime soon at that pace!”

And Harry saw it right as the last of Ginny’s words fell from her mouth. The Sitch, hovering fifty meters away, practically glowing.

Ginny saw it too.

Both her and Harry tore after it, shirts rippling in the wind as they gained speed, brooms tipping forward. They were right on top of each other, zipping through the air, as the Snitch floated calmly underneath the golden rung of a towering goal post.

Ginny caught it. She laughed brightly and Harry mock-pouted.

After that, Harry caught it two times, finally feeling a sense of security on the Cleansweep. His stomach bubbled with a strong swell of pride, which was removed as quickly as it came when Ginny took the Snitch in the final two rounds.

It had become semi-dark outside when the duo ceased flying, bringing their feet slowly back down to the hard ground. Above, stars were beginning to speckle the sky and the soft hooting from the owls in the Owlery could be heard from the recesses of the Quidditch pitch. 

“I’m starving,” Harry said as they put away their borrowed broomsticks.

“Dinner is probably soon,” Ginny replied. “We could just head down now. Skip the showers.”

Harry stifled a laugh. He raised his wand, and with a small swish, cast a quick cleaning spell over both him and Ginny. It wouldn’t do much, but it would make the smell much better than when they were covered head to toe in sweat. 

“Thanks.”

They trekked into the castle with sluggish steps, their muscles worn out from hours of flying. Around them, the corridors of the castle glistened in the warm torchlight. The portraits spoke in hushed voices and the occasional ghost passed through one wall and entered another. Everything bristled with magic. It thrummed through the stonework, new and old, giving the castle all of its strength. 

This was home. Even with all its gruesome qualities.

Hogwarts had been ravaged with battle scars and drenched in tormented memories, but it was and would always remain home to Harry. And Harry  _ knew _ he needed to solve the mystery that plagued Hogwarts, but for now, he could just revel. 

Revel in the friends that still walked alongside him in the corridors and sat beside him in every class that counted. Revel in past memories and those still to be made. Revel in one-on-one Quidditch matches with Ginny and mornings in the Library with Hermione and evenings in the Kitchen with Ron. Revel in the continuation of trips to Hagrid’s hut, who awaited Harry every weekend, sitting silently at the edge of the Forbidden Forest.

“What’s got your head in the clouds?” Ginny’s voice pulled him from his thoughts.

Harry blinked wildly. “Oh, er… just Hogwarts.”

“Just Hogwarts,” Ginny repeated.

She eyed him suspiciously and tore into another question. Her curiosity never dulled and it was, by every admission, her life’s immediate purpose to want to know things. 

“Why did you invite Malfoy to the Library?”

Harry didn’t reply. He didn’t want to. He didn’t know the answer, not fully. There was only the conclusion he’d come to: that the group needed help and that Malfoy needed people. 

Ginny pressed him anyhow.

“You’ve hated him for years, Harry. And now what? I know you spoke for him at his trial in the summer, but… he’s not a good person. He never has been. I honestly don’t get this whole… thing with him.”

“Me neither, honestly,” Harry answered.

“Then  _ why? _ ”

Harry moistened his lips self-consciously. “I’d like to say it was a spur of the moment request, but I can’t. All I know is that there’s a part of me that’s tired of hating him. And yeah… yeah, he’s been a shitty, horrible person for years. Nothing will change his past. It’s impossible to erase being a Death Eater, his father is proof of that enough. I just thought… maybe if he changed his way of thinking, maybe if he’d apologized… it would feel like a start to something.”

Ginny looked down, shaking her head. Frizzy strands of red hair fell around her angular face. She was beautiful, even after flying for hours, but she was dismissive of Harry now, and truthful, even when it hurt. 

“You can never get enough of him, it seems,” Ginny said, her voice low and accusing. “You know that I’m only saying this because I love and care about you, but sometimes I think your… weird obsession with Malfoy goes beyond hate.”

“What do you mean by that?” asked Harry, baffled. 

“I can’t tell you what you think or what you feel deep down, but what I can tell you is that you’ve always paid him more attention than you ever paid me.”

Harry fell quiet.

All of his thoughts were jumbled together, pulsing and plying. Somehow, he knew that she was telling the harsh truth, no matter how unwanted it was. 

“ _ Oh _ .”

“I’m… I’ll drop it for now,” Ginny said kindly. “But at some point, you need to answer the question of why you’re suddenly giving him these… chances. After all he’s done to you. To me and Ron and Hermione… Why?”

Their pace had quickened and the corridors had brightened. As they neared the Great Hall, more students appeared around them and warm chatter filled the gaping spaces in their silence. 

Ginny reached out, grabbed Harry’s hand, and squeezed it tight. Her features had gone soft, but her eyes were still sharp and swirling with a dark glint.

“Just think about what you’re doing says,” she said. “What it says to other people and what it says about you. You don’t even have to tell me anything. I just… I think that Ron and Hermione deserve to know your intentions regarding Malfoy and his sudden involvement in this project. His sudden involvement in  _ your _ life. The world doesn’t revolve around you, I know you know that.”

He gave her a small, hard smile. “Yeah. Okay.”

They parted ways.

Harry watched as Ginny went, eyes solid and brain on fire. He wasn’t even involved with anything Malfoy. They shared a dorm room. They shared an unimaginable hate for one another. They wanted to solve this disappearance problem. They wanted nothing else to do with one another. 

And as Harry turned into the Great Hall, his eyes flicked across the way to a blond head, sitting alone at the Slytherin table, eyes cast downward. 


	7. chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “My soul has been so fearful, so violent: forgive its brutality.” — Crossroads, Louise Glück

“Do you want help?”

“No.”

“Do you  _ need _ help?”

“Not from you.”

Harry stood at the edge of his bed, curious eyes surveying Malfoy as he fumbled with his tie. The silky material slipped through his fingers like sand as he tried — and miserably failed — to form an adequate knot.

“Very ‘superior to the rest of the wizarding race’ of you, Malfoy,” Harry joked, his face cracking. “Did your father forget to include tying a tie alongside his lessons of ‘How to please a Dark Lord’ and ‘Why pure bloodlines are better.’”

Malfoys face contorted, sour and unamused. “Shut the fuck up, Potter.”

“Oh, give up, Malfoy. Let me do it.”

Striding across the threshold, Harry approached Malfoy with courage lacing his steps. Not like he necessarily  _ needed _ courage to tie his enemies’ (former enemy?) tie. It was more of a:  _ Give me the courage not to take the tie and garrote him with it. _

Malfoy’s hands fell to his sides, fingers curling, unsure of an appropriate reaction. There probably was none anyway. 

The Slytherins tie was soft between Harry’s fingers. Of course, how could it be any other way? This was torturous enough already, and Harry had  _ offered. _

Carefully, Harry evened out the length and slowly moved the fabric rhythmically. He dared not look up and risk meeting Malfoy’s eyes, who stood almost half a head taller. What if Malfoy was staring at him now? Eyes angry and fixed and locked on the target: Harry.

“There,” Harry said. “Done.”

Harry took a cautious step back, acutely aware of his… tie tying actions. Though, Malfoy did not look at him, register his presence or actions or sudden fear, at all. Instead, his grey eyes glazed over the tie, breath hitched.

“I could’ve used magic,” Malfoy said dumbly.

“For something that mundane?”

“People do it all the time.”

Harry shrugged. “It never looks the same with magic.”

“You’re right.”

Blinking wildly, Harry furrowed his brow in bewilderment. “Sorry, but did I hear you correctly just now?”

“Yes, Potter. Now shut up.”

“You just said I was right.”

“I did,” Malfoy confirmed, backhandedly, as if he were talking about the autumn weather, an ordinary affirmation. “Or do you not only struggle with sight, but hearing as well?”

“Well, maybe you—”

The shirt sleeve covering Malfoy’s left arm rode up, the material lifting ever so slightly. A dark, muted grey curled at the base of his wrist, bearing its ugly tail. The sentence Harry had begun to say died in his throat instantly.

There was a dark history ingrained in the very image that decorated Malfoy’s skin. It would linger there forever, contaminating him. Marking him for all the world to see what he was: a Death Eater. Someone unforgivable and heartless to the core.

And yet… 

Confused by Harry’s sudden death of courage, Malfoy glanced down to where the Gryffindor’s eyes had been drawn to. Scrambling with pale fingers, Malfoy pulled the sleeve down until it covered his wrist completely and more, eyes wet with… realization.

“I…” Malfoy began, voice weak.

Without a word, fury fueled Harry’s eyes. How could he have forgotten? It was there in brutish ink: a mark of murder.

Malfoy was tainted. And he knew it, too.

“Fuck off.”

Malfoy gaped, before gaining himself. His back shot up, straight and rigid, the perfect posture for an imperfect academic. It was impossible to replace what was inherently  _ you _ down to your bones, down to your soul. 

Malfoy continued, “It’s not like you’d ever understand.”

“You’re right,” Harry said, venom in his voice, emulating Malfoy’s earlier statement. “I never will.”

Nostrils flaring, Malfoy pushed past Harry, fleeing their shared room. It was a shame Malfoy had left so abruptly,  _ yet _ , Harry thought,  _ a coward was a coward, just as the past is dangerous and the future unrelenting _ . 

The idea that Malfoy was redeemable tickled the back of Harry’s brain. It was slinking slowly away and a part of him was trying to pull it back. To anchor the very notion.

Yes, he was a coward… incredibly self-serving and emotionally locked away. And a part of Harry didn’t care.

His antagonization had come from the anger of everyone else. When he saw that mark all he could see were those who did commit heinous acts of crime in the name of Voldemort: murder, torture, destruction. 

Malfoy’s attributions were a blip in comparison to others.

So why did it torture Harry to see the muted drawing so plainly on an arm that had failed its only task?

***

The Black Lake sat vast and stagnant, consumed by the crisp autumn air. Vacant were the usual waves and ripples, replaced instead by the intermittent lull of the lake — inching away and coming back once more to the sandy, black shore. 

Various students populated the surrounding lakeside, paying no attention to any other except themselves. Some sat upon scattered boulders with books in hand, others were skipping flat stones, which bounced across the lake, forging ripples. A few more had removed their oxfords and ditched their socks to wade their toes in the icy water.

It was a myth that the Black Lake was dangerous. Only the Grindylows and mermaids carried menace and they lived at the bottom of the basin.

Harry himself sat alone on one of the many boulders, cheek in palm. He was waiting, impatiently, for Ron and Hermione, who were Godric knows where.

“Move over.”

The voice, cool and composed, drew Harry’s eyes upward. It was Malfoy, of course it was Malfoy. Blond, barbed and sharp-edged, his reliance on long sleeve shirts still in season.

“No.”

Malfoy sat down anyway, shoving Harry over, his body all pointed bone. His elbow dug into Harry’s side, who finally admitted defeat and scooted over reluctantly.

“I know you don’t forgive me.”

“No shit.”

Malfoy soured. “But I don’t care.”

“Then why are you here?” Harry asked pointedly. “How’d you even know where I was?”

Ignoring the questions, Malfoy kicked at the wet ground. His shoe left a crescent imprint in the sand, which gathered on his sole.

“I can’t even look at  _ it _ myself.”

There was no need to mention what  _ it _ was. They both already knew. 

“Then get it covered up,” Harry said, harsh intonation decorating his words. 

He was starting to become too quick to anger. As always, it seemed, when something regarded Malfoy.

“Don’t think I haven’t tried, Potter.”

Malfoy’s jaw was set, the muscles pulled taut and angry. His left hand was a clenched fist, resting lightly on his thigh.

“Why are you here?” Harry repeated.

“I can’t stand you,” Malfoy answered, his voice low and faulty. “Yet… you are the only person who will talk to me.”

“We’re roommates, I can hardly ignore you.”

“You could,” Malfoy said. “But you don’t.”

“Going soft, Malfoy?”

Malfoy’s fist tightened. “Absolutely not.”

Around them, eyes turned to stare, gaping at the two enemies who sat thigh to thigh. Harry’s boulder had become an epicenter for prying ears and students preening for gossip, something interesting to tell their friends about  _ the  _ Harry Potter and (ex, although some would dare to disagree) Death Eater, Draco Malfoy.

The lake drew away and several grimy shells coated the sandy shore in its absence. What could Harry say that wasn’t boiling over with anger?

“It faded some after…” Malfoy paused, the words pinching his cheeks. “After  _ he _ died.”

“Is that supposed to cheer me up?”

Malfoys lip curled. “I’m not trying to cheer you up, Potter. I’m just telling you how it is.”

“So it faded?” Harry repeated.

“It faded, but it is dark magic,” Malfoy said, “and it will never go away.”

“Maybe you deserve it.”

“Maybe I don’t want to deserve it.”

Harry bit back a sardonic laugh. “Maybe you shouldn’t have gotten it in the first place.”

They were both refusing to use its name. Like saying  _ the Dark Mark _ would awaken some angry spirit attached to its creator. 

“I had no choice.”

“There’s always a choice.”

“That’s where you’re wrong, Potter,” Malfoy scoffed bitterly. “Maybe I don’t want to deserve it, but maybe I bear it because it’s the only way to live with such a reminder.”

“Magic doesn’t cover it up?”

Malfoy shook his head, blinking away what might have been acidic tears. “I used to scrub my arm raw trying to wash it away. The cuts on my arm would bleed and the soap would sting. Nothing changed, however. It was still as dark as the day he carved it into my forearm.”

“Why are you even telling me this?”

“I don’t have a choice,” Malfoy whispered. “I refuse to be… to be associated with that part of me.”

Harry clenched his jaw. “It is still a part of you.”

“But I refuse to let it define me.”

Harry stood up, his ass sore from sitting on the boulder for so long. Ron and Hermione had never shown up. He wondered where they were. 

_ Away from him. _

“You did worse as an insolent child than you ever did as a Death Eater. The symbol on your arm represents a terrorist group, yes. But you represent a pretentious, unapologetic bully and a coward who could never think for himself.”

Malfoy’s eyes widened.

“The world is not on your side, Malfoy.”

“I never said it was.”

Harry's face fell stoic. “You want it to be.”

“And if I do, is that so bad?”

“Yes,” Harry answered critically. “You need to be sorry. You need to be better. There are no more excuses this life can give you.”

He took his leave, cloak running through his ankles, dusting the sandy shore. If Malfoy got up to follow him, he never knew. 


	8. chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “It is a serious thing  
> Just to be alive on this fresh morning  
> In this broken world.” — Invitation, Mary Oliver

The weeks sidled their way into November more quickly than Harry had anticipated, the air turning cold and crisp, as the grounds encompassing the Hogwarts castle turned chilly and vacant, the grass becoming a yellowed patchwork of ugly, offbeat colors. 

It was now, more often than not, that those who ventured outside gripped their cloaks closer to their bodies, anticipating cruel, winter weather. 

The forest that bordered the outskirts of the grounds was bunched closer together. The onslaught of an early autumn chill inched nearer and it seemed even the trees knew better than to go without an inkling of warmth. 

In the evenings, small groups of students huddled as one. The fire in the fireplace blazed more brazenly and the flames stretched higher. It would only get colder, as the grounds of Hogwarts always did when autumn dripped into the winter months.

It was not unlikely for the first snow to touch down in the last few, icy weeks of November. White clumps would often sprout up throughout the grounds expectantly, slicking the cobblestone walkways and, although minimally, lifting some of the student’s spirits.

Everything at Hogwarts seemed quaint and ordinary. Well, about as ordinary as a school of Witchcraft and Wizardry could get. 

However, for Harry and his friends, their search for the missing pages of the school record had turned up nothing. They had absolutely zero to show for the long, arduous hours spent flipping through  _ more _ school records and even some educational tomes. 

Nothing in the dusty pages told of any disappearances. Or any solutions if there should be such disappearances. 

It felt like time was inching steadily away from them.

Today was just the same as any other. The rain outside came down heavy and hard like slate— unblinded from wind, cruel and indelicate. Everything at once became dark and wet, disturbed by the storm. Thin stems of plants, which had recently sprouted in the garden snapped beneath the weight of the rain, crumpling into the dirt, leaves drenched in soggy misery. 

To combat the dreary weather, Harry sat, pocketed away in a hidden alcove, his head tucked into a book. There were always first times for everything, Ron once joked.

Squeezed in across from him was Hermione, who had pulled her knees closer to her body (to prevent from tangling her legs with Harry’s), using them as a canvas to prop up a textbook and parchment, where she writing deliriously in one of her many school regulated notebooks.

She was quite adept at completing her homework long before anyone else, a talent that had helped her successfully throughout the many years at Hogwarts. Harry had always found the long essay writing and taxing questionnaires incredibly grueling, but he’d been recently pushing himself to catch up with Hermione.

“It’s been weeks,” Hermione burst out, frustrated. “And we still haven’t gotten any closer to solving this… this  _ thing. _ ”

Harry could tell she was close to crying. Hermione had buried herself in this project. She’d had her heart and mind set on finding out how the students before had regained their possessions and coming up empty-handed… that was disheartening.

“Hey,” Harry tried to comfort her, but was failing miserably. “Hey, we’ll solve this. We just… need to think outside of the box.”

Hermione looked up at him softly. Her brown eyes glowing, brandy-colored and warm, in the dimly lit alcove. 

Rain beat against the glass, shattering the thin aura of peace. Hermione blinked suddenly, pulled back to the harsh reality of their situation. 

“Should we tell Professor McGonagall?” she asked timidly, as if Harry would dismiss the very idea of such a thing without hesitance.

He didn’t. He wouldn’t.

“I don’t know. Why do you ask?”

“The last time this happened… Well, the last  _ documented _ time this happened, the students approached some of their Professors on the subject,” Hermione answered.

“Maybe…” Harry trailed, unsure and unwavering. “Maybe not. It’s unlikely she’ll be able to help us even if she wanted to.”

“Yeah.”

And then: “Do you think she might be missing anything, too?” Hermione asked. She bit her bottom lip nervously, letting her teeth puncture the soft skin. 

“If so, she might just think it’s Peeves taking the piss out on her.”

“Or a juvenile student.”

Harry nodded, his gaze drifting to the window, where raindrops slipped down the panes, drops of tears on a glassy face. Down below, the courtyard was home to students covering their heads with their cloaks or book bags, running for shelter. 

Soon the rain would be replaced with snowflakes and everyone would be reminded of the cold, callous days of November. It was around that time, however, that Hogsmeade opened to the students and once again, bootleg butterbeer would stream through the corridors of Hogwarts. The students would forget the harsh blizzards as they suckled on Honeydukes candies, eyes glazing over in a sweet-induced haze. 

“Our first set of practical exams are soon,” Hermione said. “Have you and Ron begun to prepare yet?”

“Er…”

Harry, unable to fill the space with a lie, looked down at his feet. They were almost touching Hermione’s. 

“Honestly, Harry!” Hermione exclaimed. “You should think of starting before November ends.” She shook her head disapprovingly, the way a mother does when she scolds her children for forgetting sunscreen on a hot day.

“Sorry, ‘Mione,” Harry mumbled.

She paused, a sympathetic frown on her lips. “What are you reading?”

Hermione craned her neck to look at the cover, which was all but a blank, faded brown binding.

The book was about the mutation and evolution of spells, its title in gold lettering on the spine. The words were starting to disappear, but you could still make out its purpose. 

It had attracted Harry’s attention in the Library one Saturday morning and he’d checked it out subsequently. To Ron’s horror (and Harry’s own), he was beginning to adopt little flakes of Hermione’s personality.

“Er, nothing of importance.”

Hermione reached out and Harry, sighing deeply, handed the book over to her awaiting hands. Her fingers traced over the title — light, intrigued, and amazed at Harry’s new rapport for reading. She flipped it open, skimming through the lines on the first page.

“Hmm,” Hermione mused. “Have you thought about what you want to do after N.E.W.T.S.? After Hogwarts? Since the Auror thing isn’t panning out.”

Her question startled Harry for a moment.

Truth be told, he’d kind of avoided thinking about that subject entirely after he’d let loose to Ron and Hermione his reluctance for Auror apprenticeship. The thought of the future scared him more than he knew was possible, even though he’d known it had been slowly peeking over the horizon since he’d started at Hogwarts.

Defeating Voldemort, Harry could handle. The impending realization that he was only a teenager, only a kid, still, and would soon have to introduce himself to the  _ real _ world — the world of occupational work and house owning and maneuvering around money and friends going off to get married and a new generation of children impressed by the halls of Hogwarts — terrified Harry to his core. 

“I haven’t,” he replied. “No.”

“You really should, Harry. Find something you like. Start from there.”

“I don’t know,” Harry said plainly. “What do I like? Quidditch? I don’t want to fly professionally.”

He returned his eyes to the window. The dark clouds swirled overhead, still full of rain, ready to empty its stomach until it couldn’t anymore. 

“Did you hear Ginny got an offer to be Chaser for the Harpies?”

Hermione sighed. “Yes. I did hear.”

Harry was trying to change the subject, it was simple enough. And Hermione knew, it was only so obvious. She’d been his friend for the better part of a decade, he couldn’t hide anything worthwhile from her.

“Anyways,” Harry said, picking at a loose thread on the cuff of his jeans. “I don’t even think I could stomach working at the Ministry at all. They’ve tormented me for years with their ridiculous cover-ups and false-informed Skeeter articles.”

“You could work in a shop,” Hermione offered. 

“Like George? No,” Harry muttered. “I can’t even shop at Diagon myself without someone falling over me with stupid praise.”

“Quidditch coach, then. I don’t think that requires flying.”

“Too much risk,” Harry replied. “It’s a dangerous job and you know it. Quidditch fans are beyond the most terrifying people in the world.”

Hermione shrugged. “You could do what Charlie does. Work with magical animals.”

“Too much work. And I don’t want to risk getting too attached.”

“Really?”

“Look, I love animals, I really do,” Harry said. “But after Hedwig… I can’t even bring myself to get a new owl. It feels rude to even think to replace her like that.”

Hermione nodded sympathetically, her hair masking her features. She reached out and laced her fingers in Harry’s own.

“So… office job or fieldwork?” she carried on, her voice low and patient. 

“I think I’d drown myself in the Black Lake before I would ever willingly work in an office.” Harry shook his head, an uncomfortable pallor to his skin. 

“Okay, then.” Hermione pondered, eyes darting upward as though she were searching her brain for ideas. “Is it possible that you  _ don’t _ want to work? You have a vault in Gringotts filled with enough money to last you several centuries.”

Harry gave her a funny look.

“Of course I want to work,” he said as if Hermione was a lunatic for even suggesting the very idea. 

Hermione frowned. “I was just saying…”

Ignoring her, Harry pressed on, “I don’t want to be one of  _ those _ people who lounge around all day on velvet chaises and hosts extravagant dinner parties and only eats expensive seafood. There’s a pretentious attitude involved in that lifestyle. A detachment from everyone else.” Harry picked at another loose thread, untethering it from the material, twisting it between his fingers. “I grew up having nothing, ‘Mione, you know that. Sitting around, not being able to ever live for myself… that would be the same as having nothing.”

“I see.”

Harry looked down. He’d brought his knees closer to his chest, mimicking Hermione. 

The cuffs of his jeans — those he’d picked at every time a bubble of nervousness grew heavy in his chest — were torn and frayed, his shoes battered and worn. Yet, they were entirely Harry. 

He owned nothing of Dudley’s anymore. He was immensely proud of that fact. Earning things on his own was an accomplishment, a step away from his past and toward whatever his future consisted of. 

“Maybe you should talk to McGonagall,” Hermione said. “She might have some better ideas than me. Or you could try talking to Ron. He  _ is _ your best friend, after all. He knows you better than anyone else does.”

“Yeah, probably.”

Hermione handed Harry back his book. He stuffed it into his book bag among the various pieces of loose parchment, bent and unfinished — homework he’d forgotten to turn in and homework that he was still in the middle of completing — alongside quills with missing feathers and old caps from forgotten inkwells that Harry had probably thrown out ages ago.

“Are we still up for Hogsmeade this weekend?” Hermione asked.

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Harry grinned. “I’ve been dying for some Honeydukes sweets. And don’t tell Ron I told you, but we’ve been sneaking down to the Kitchens to try and steal some butterbeer.”

Hermione smacked him playfully on the arm. Entirely disapproving, although a tender smile spread across her cheeks. 

“You two are idiots,” she crowed.

“But you love us anyway.”

“Oh, shut up.”

Hermione climbed out from the alcove, her feet swinging gently onto the stone floor. She stretched out her sore limbs, grabbed her bag, kissed Harry a swift goodbye on the cheek, and headed off. 

Harry watched her go. 

A reminder that he wasn’t alone. That he still had someone who could go and remember to come back.

***

Fire beat against the ceiling of the room, an ominous drum, licking the canopy with a great hunger. The room blazed bright orange and yellow, intense and deadly. Sweat drizzled down Harry’s temples. 

There was only one thought pounding at the edges of his mind.  _ He was going to burn alive. _

All around him, he watched as discarded, dusty couches, broken wooden chairs, cabinets, and ornate chests, got swallowed by flames. The fire coiled around the legs of shredded armchairs, climbing and instantly setting the seats alight. Hat racks burned like tall pyres and tapestries, once lining the walls, vanished as their colors seared away.

There were no windows in the room. It was an expanse sequestered deep in the heart of the castle. But, lengths away, there was a large oak door, acting as both an entrance and an exit. Harry’s saving grace. 

He took a step forward. 

His legs didn’t budge. Harry felt, for a terrifying hot flash of a moment, indefinitely rooted to the burning floor of the room.

With a harsh, suffocated voice, Harry attempted to call out. For help. For his friends who’d been standing beside him only seconds before. Where had they gone?

_ Did they already burn up? _ plagued Harry’s mind.

But no sound came from his mouth. He clawed at his throat — fingers tearing at thin, flaking skin — which felt dry and fractured like that of mud-cracks in the desert.

Smoke swirled around him, hands and arms and faces of smoke. His skin was hot, ignited by the flames, which inched closer and closer — hands and arms and faces of flames. 

Harry tried to run for the door again. His feet were still pressed deep into the floor. As though the concrete ground had been spelled to trap his feet and tug down on his ankles.

A tendril of fire reached out, wrapping tight and hot around his ankle—

—Harry sat up alert, wet eyes blinking wildly.

It was a nightmare. The first in two weeks.

He scrambled, shoving off the covers which had been tangled up around his legs, pinning him to the bed. His chest heaved as he gasped silently for air.

Returning from a nightmare first felt like slipping, slowly, until Harry was falling and flailing. It truly, though, had been quite some time since Harry had awoken, frightened and unsure and feeling entirely out of place. 

He reached for his glasses on the bedside table and fixed them onto his nose. They slid down slightly from the sweat that enveloped Harry’s face in a moist sheen. He pressed them back up harshly.

The room in front of him went from fuzzy to clear in almost seconds. Harry had finally gotten his bearings together.

_ Silence. _

The room was eerily silent. Beside Harry, the window was sealed shut and the typical whistle of the wind was vacant. There was no rustle of bedsheets, no Hippogriff-sounding snores, no breathing at all besides Harry’s.

Harry released an uneven breath and glanced at Malfoy’s bed.  _ Empty. _

The covers had been pushed harshly aside and the lack of an indentation in the pillow told Harry that Malfoy had, in fact, been gone for quite some time. Dazed and somewhat worried (although who should ever be worried about  _ Malfoy? _ Harry thought hazily), he rolled out of his bed. 

Where would Malfoy even go at —  _ Tempus _ , 3:24 a.m. — this hour?

Harry checked the bathroom first expecting to find nothing. He found nothing.

He wandered down to the common room, which was equally deserted. Standing there, in his sweat covered pajamas, Harry noted the eerie emptiness that hung in the room — like there were always meant to be people here.

The quietness snuck up on Harry, choking him almost, and he made his way to the portrait to leave, fearful of staying a minute longer. If he stayed, he might’ve fallen victim to the disorientation — the middleness, the lack of start and finish — that the room played host to. It was bold enough of him to assume he hadn’t already fallen victim.

_ Godric _ , Harry thought as he stood outside the common room, how he longed for his map. It would be so much easier to locate Malfoy. 

But it would also signify a repeat of sixth year. Cold, gruesome, bloody. It was after that that Harry had stopped looking for Malfoy’s little black dot. 

Now, however, he felt it was vital for the comfort and security that the slip of parchment had once brought. Going searching for things he should not find was his specialty, after all. 

The corridor creaked, moaning with every step as Harry progressed throughout the castle. The portraits spoke in hushed whispers, clinging to his movements. Though some slept on, bound by the habitual instinct to close their painted eyes whenever the castle went dark.

Harry peeked into vacant classrooms that lined the first floor. Still nothing. 

Not a single soul was wandering about Hogwarts at this hour. Not even pesky Mrs Norris or grubby, old Filch, who liked often to surprise students out of bed, caught lurking the corridors. Harry wondered to himself if Filch ever slept. He always seemed to be around, no matter the time. 

Moving upward in the castle, Harry continued to find himself empty-handed. He thought, for a moment, he’d seen some movement, but it had only been the Bloody Baron, with a wisp of a transparent tail, turning a corner. Harry grumbled miserably.

Perhaps he just ought to head back to bed. 

Yet… something tugged at his mind. An itch to understand whatever was going on with Malfoy. 

Maybe Ginny  _ was _ right about Harry’s… little obsession. It was, after all, not the first time Harry had gone out in search of the Slytherin. 

Harry stood at the threshold of a long stretch of corridor, lined with torches all the way down, their flames flickering, small bonfires, against the walls. He paused to think, scraping at the recesses of his mind for any place Malfoy might have vanished to.

Outside? Onto the grounds? No. 

It was too cold and crass to hide away in the cobblestone courtyard. Not to mention there wasn’t anywhere to hide there. Just cragged rocks jutting up like spires to hang arches overhead, a place for students to get out of the rain or unbearable sun. 

Malfoy was unlikely to hide away in a classroom either, nor down on the Quidditch Pitch or up in its stands, nor shackled up in another common room. The eighth years weren’t allowed any of the passwords anyway and it was noticeable that Malfoy lacked friends. 

It was also unlikely, thought Harry, that Malfoy knew the direction to the Kitchens. For Malfoy seemed to feel blasé about such locations.

Perhaps calling it a ‘little obsession’ was detracting from the fact that Harry  _ could _ find Malfoy. Or at least, knew where  _ not _ to find him. 

In the end, Harry trekked up to the Astronomy Tower, feeling hopeless. This had been where Dumbledore died. Where Malfoy had threatened him, tears on his cheeks, fear in his eyes, and where Snape had used the spell instead.

_ Avada Kedavra.  _

Such a simple yet effective spell. Easy in the mouth, rough on the mind. 

And Malfoy was there, a cloak wrapped around his sloping shoulders, his eyes trained on the dark valleys in the distance. He sat alone, legs hanging off the balcony and his hair stirring in the icy wind. His ears were red-tipped and a ghost-like breath fell from his lips.

“Malfoy?”

The Slytherin turned slowly, half-petrified. “I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Well, tough shit,” Harry said. “You never make it easy in the first place.”

Harry strode across the Astronomy Tower, feet carrying him swiftly toward Malfoy. The memories of him and Dumbledore, standing, soaked in grimy water, came to him in quick flashes. 

“How did you find me?”

“Took some searching. Just… ended up in the right place in the end.”

Malfoy shuddered, gripping onto the cloak tighter, his pale fingers clawing for warmth. 

Harry was standing only inches away. Carefully, he sank down to take a seat, leaving room so they sat apart unlike that time by the lake.

“I hate you,” Malfoy stated. 

“I know,” Harry said. “You never shut up about it.”

“I really don’t want to talk to you right now.”

Not really knowing what to say, Harry asked, “Did you have a nightmare?”

Malfoy remained silent. An echo from the wind wafted into the Tower, swarming the two boys. It whistled with the strength of ice forming across a lake. The heavy sound of a large, ancient beast crying out.

Remembering how shitty their last real conversation went, Harry carried forth. It was his turn to be vocal. He’d done some thinking since then.

“I had one, too,” Harry said. “Just now. First in a while. I think I thought I’d gotten lucky for a minute and they’d all finally gone away.”

Silence.

“We’re not any closer to finding everyone’s lost stuff,” Harry continued. “I can’t understand why the answers were just… ripped out.”

He looked down pointedly at his feet, down the spiraling tower, stuffed with old and new brick, and into the grassy courtyard below.  _ This is where Dumbledore fell _ , he thought solemnly. 

Harry swallowed down an acrid breath. Here he was, sitting by the place his old mentor had died, next to the man — the boy, practically, Malfoy was still only just eighteen — who nearly killed him. The irony was a pang in his chest.

“Why did you come and find me?” Malfoy croaked.

He no longer looked toward Harry, but out at the moon. It was an ornament in the sky, full and ominous, like a large spotlight, fixated on this odd duo. 

“Why did you come and find me at the lake?”

No reply. So Harry did what Malfoy couldn’t and answered  _ his _ . 

“I had a nightmare about the fire…” Harry said. “When I saw you were gone, I don’t know, I got scared, I think.”

“About me?”

“No, no,” Harry shook his head. “Well, yes, a bit. I think for a minute I got scared I’d left you behind. In the room. Burning alive.”

More silence.

Harry had saved Malfoy then, without question. It was strange to think Malfoy didn’t even know why he’d been saved… just that he _ had _ . And by Harry, of all people. 

This time, Malfoy turned to look at Harry. The Slytherin regarded him with cool, silver eyes drifting absentmindedly over Harry’s face, sweaty from climbing the stairs up to the Tower and cool from the cold wind.

“I dream about that day all the time,” Malfoy muttered, turning his gaze away.

“Were you two close?”

“Pardon?”

“You and Crabbe,” Harry corrected. “I know he was like… your bodyguard growing up or whatever, but were you two  _ close? _ ”

Malfoy thought about the question for a minute, carefully mulling over his answer, as if it might hurt him to say. “Not close like you and Weasel, but we were still friends.”

Harry nodded quietly.

“I don’t even know why I’m talking to you about this,” Malfoy said.

“You were eager to talk about your…  _ you know _ ,” Harry replied.

Malfoy grumbled, tugging his cloak closer to his body. “Call it what it is, Potter.”

“Have you talked to anyone about the Battle?” Harry asked, shoving away Malfoy’s… suggestion. 

He closed his eyes, awaiting Malfoy’s reply, and let the cold wind whip his face. Harry could feel the tips of his ears turning a nice, crimson hue.

“Well, I don’t want to talk to  _ you _ about it,” Malfoy replied.

“That didn’t answer my question,” Harry said and then repeated: “Have you talked to  _ anyone _ about the Battle?”

Malfoy glanced over at Harry with an odd look in his eye. A want, a need to know something, like Malfoy was clawing for answers  _ himself _ from just the way he looked at Harry. He turned away as quickly as he’d turned to face Harry.

“No,” he said with finality.

“Then maybe you should.”

“Why?” Malfoy huffed. “So I could sign up for some shitty group therapy with you, Weasel, and Granger? I think that’s highly unlikely.”

“No,” Harry replied harshly.

“Why then?”

“Because you’re bottling everything up and it’s not healthy.”

“Since when do you care, Potter?” Malfoy spat. “You chastise me with every word you say.”

Harry wet his lips, the answer already on his tongue. “I don’t know, Malfoy. Perhaps the fact I spoke at your trial, even after how you treated me and my friends for years. Treated me like I was dirt, like I was beneath you. Perhaps because our lakeside conversation made me sit and think.”

Malfoy whipped his head around, eyes alight.

“I can’t fucking figure it out!” he hissed.

“What?”

“Why you even spoke at my trial. Why you didn’t just let them send me off to Azkaban. You can barely look at me and I can’t… I can’t stand you. So what…” Malfoy faltered. “I treated you like shit, I know it, I can’t even apologize for it. I am… ashamed some of the time  _ because _ I can’t apologize for it. So why did you do it?  _ Why? _ ”

Harry stared at Malfoy, wide-eyed and wanting.

The Slytherin looked desperate and glacial, a shell of himself — of his former self. He appeared, from an outsider, corpse-like.

“You’re ashamed to apologize.”

“The fuck, Potter,” Malfoy gaped. “Just answer my question.”

He swallowed.

“ _ Please _ ,” he croaked.

Harry’s lips parted in surprise. “Er… I know a lot of people wanted you to go there. Even now. I still see students in the corridors, disgusted by your very existence. And, I… I’m not going to tell them  _ not  _ to hate you. The things you did in the war, leading up to the war… that’s never going to go away. You made your choice, or maybe you didn’t. Maybe it was all your father, but you were a Death Eater once. Even if you don’t act like it now.

“And I think, er… that there’s a subtle difference between alignment and alignment without allegiance. Even if you didn’t support Voldemort’s cause” — Malfoy flinched at the use of the name — “you were still a part of  _ his  _ side. You were a collaborator and a follower. He gave you tasks, I know that, and even if you couldn’t complete them fully, you still helped see them through. Your existence as a Death Eater was a dangerous game, something that might not have been entirely your choice. But your existence before that, as a bully… that was all  _ you _ . And even then, at your trial, I chose to look past that because, in the end, we’re all still kids.”

The wind whistled. Out in the forest below a wolf let loose a howl that shattered the calm of the trees and the birds that slept in them. 

“I didn’t like the idea of an eighteen-year-old kid locked up in Azkaban based on crimes they didn’t commit,” Harry said. “I know… I know they pinned murder charges on you, Malfoy, and I know you would never kill anyone.”

Malfoy was quiet at first. He took in Harry’s words slowly, letting them thrum through his body and pass into his mind.

“How could you possibly know that?” Malfoy jeered.

Harry saw a lonesome tear slide down his frost-bitten cheek. It fell silently and disappeared into the collar of Malfoy’s cloak.

“The night Dumbledore died,” Harry said, “I was hidden away beneath the platform of the Tower. I saw everything. I saw it  _ all _ . And I remember it so vividly, like a cruel nightmare. I saw you, and you couldn’t kill Dumbledore, you were crying… and you were scared.” Harry trained his eyes on the horizon. “Maybe that’s the real reason why I couldn’t let the Ministry put you in Azkaban.”

“I…  _ Pardon me? _ ”

“You would’ve spared Dumbledore,” Harry replied. “He was offering you protection. I knew then, every moment leading up to that was a lie. You might’ve been on Voldemort’s side, but your heart wasn’t. You just never left and I couldn’t get over that.”

“That’s foolish,” Malfoy said stubbornly.

“It’s  _ true _ .”

“I don’t believe you.”

Harry reached out, timidly, and placed a hand on Malfoy’s arm. His left arm. He flinched under Harry’s touch, but didn’t shake his hand away.

“Dumbledore was going to die anyway.”

“Of old age? Everyone does, Potter.”

“No, no,” Harry said. “Dumbledore had asked Snape to kill him. His death was planned from the beginning. Either way, Dumbledore needed to die.”

“Needed?”

Harry pretended not to hear. “A part of me was glad, though, that it wasn’t you.”

Malfoy blinked, shifting away from Harry’s touch.

It was difficult, not knowing how Malfoy was processing Harry’s words. Even so, grief and guilt and astonishment were painted across his face in harsh confusion.

“I was jealous of you,” Malfoy said, changing the topic suddenly. Afraid of what Harry’s words might mean.

Harry’s brows furrowed. “What?”

“I was jealous of you,” Malfoy repeated. “I wanted so desperately to be your friend and you rejected me on the spot. I wanted everything you had. The fame. The glory that came with it. The friends and the countless opportunities. You and your friends always had such…  _ fun _ . It was natural that I should be jealous. I was eleven. It hurt more than I understood. I hated so much of what made you… you.”

“Well, you shouldn’t have been.”

“What?” Jealous of Weasley and Granger?”

“Their names are Ron and Hermione,” Harry said. “And no, you shouldn’t have been jealous of me.”

“Why?”

“Godric, Malfoy,” Harry huffed. “My life was completely miserable before Hogwarts.”

“That can’t have been,” Malfoy rebutted. “You’re Harry Potter. The Boy Who Lived. You were famous. You  _ are _ famous.”

Harry sighed. “My life was miserable, that’s all you need to know. Where I grew up, I wasn’t the Boy Who Lived. I was just a boy with shitty relatives, okay.”

“Okay.”

“Good.”

Malfoy paused. “I’m sorry.”

Harry froze in place. His hands, cold and blue, twitched. “I, er, thanks.”

“You wanted me to apologize and now I have,” Malfoy said. “I’m going to head back to the common room. This was not fun, let’s never do it again.”

“Ditto.”

“Are you coming with?” Malfoy asked as he stood, shaking his shivering limbs out.

“Oh, er, yeah.”

Malfoy helped Harry off the floor and they stood awkwardly in front of one another. The wind whipped around them, clenching them in a freezing fist. Then Malfoy nodded and started to head off, Harry on his tail.

“In regards to your… nightmare,” Malfoy began. “Thank you for saving me, then. I never told you how much I appreciated that.”

“I couldn’t just let you die.”

Malfoy paused. “I… thanks.” 

Together, they carried down the stairway and through the corridors to their common room, an unspoken agreement between one another. A silent understanding that people change and that life fluctuates.


	9. chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I don’t want to be alone.” — The Fury of Cooks, Anne Sexton

Harry and Malfoy had made it back to their dormitory around 5 a.m., but Harry still felt wide awake, and therefore just laid back, staring up at the ceiling. He memorized the grooves in the wooden posts, noticed the intricate threads of linen in the bedsheets, and watched as the autumn sun rose — a vivid yellow and golden background in front of a wide, blue expanse. 

Across the room Malfoy sat in his bed, still wide awake, too. His pale fingers trailed over the covers on his bed, wearing them thin with worry. Malfoy’s face, from Harry’s view in the bed opposite, was gaunt and sunken. His eyes seemed very small, his mouth very thin, his nose very narrow. 

“I’m going to get dressed,” Malfoy said suddenly.

Malfoy slipped off his bed, eyes looking anywhere except at Harry. Harry watched him dig around for his uniform and duck off into the bathroom.

Harry slid down in his bed, head falling off the pillow and onto the mattress. His mind thrummed with thoughts about his conversation in the Astronomy Tower. 

Should he bring it up again? Were they officially talking to each other now? Perhaps they were. Perhaps they weren’t.

With a heavy sigh, Harry slid himself out of his bed and went to the trunk resting at its foot, rifling through his clothes. He pulled out a rumpled uniform, his body fueled with an odd sense of anticipation — like the effects of unsteady potion that shot through his veins.

Once dressed, Harry met Ron in the common room. Ron’s limber body was already splayed across a patchy brown couch, legs kicked up on the table in front of it, watching the round clock above the fireplace tick.

“I knocked on the door to Hermione’s room,” Ron said with a fierce yawn. “She’s still getting dressed.”

Harry took a quiet seat starboard Ron, in a lumpy armchair that seemed to swallow him whole. He suddenly felt very small.

Going down to breakfast as a trio was rather new. It was only after Ron and Hermione had gotten together that the two were convinced they absolutely  _ needed _ to be seated with one another during every meal. 

So, in the meantime, Harry and Ron would wait in a sticky silence that asked for nothing yet demanded the core of Harry’s mind to stretch and be meddled with. The common room, near empty in the early morning, captured the same eeriness it had before, when Harry had wandered down in search of Malfoy.

So speak of the Devil and he shall appear…

Malfoy, only seconds later, turned up outside the door to his and Harry’s room. He looked significantly better than he had hours before, much more tidy and put-together. There was a new, healthy glow about him, as if he’d pinched his cheeks to pool some color onto his face. 

This was the first time Harry could genuinely say that Malfoy looked more human than he ever had in this school year so far. 

The Slytherin opened his mouth as if to say something to Harry, but he noticed Ron and promptly shut it. Instead, he gave a slight nod, glided like a spirit across the threshold of the common room, and ducked through the portrait.

It took Hermione a few more minutes before she made her way down the stairs, still blinking away the morning sleepiness. When she spotted Ron and Harry waiting below, a warm smile made its way onto her lips.

Ron slid off the couch and greeted his girlfriend at the foot of the stairs, which led up to all the girls rooms, with a kiss. Harry rose awkwardly from his seat, gesturing to the portrait, eager to leave. 

His friends followed him out and down to the Great Hall. 

Hogwarts was more alive in the mornings than at any other time. The hustle and bustle of waking portraits and early risers and looming Professors and bothersome ghosts and — was that Mrs Norris? Professor McGonagall? Or someone’s unsuspecting tabby? — filled the corridors with an earnest radiance.

It seemed, from the perspective of the world, that Hogwarts had never been host to Death Eaters or Voldemort of dozens of dead students, fresh out of their first years at the school. 

It was undoubtedly disbelief that held the castle together. Disbelief in the disbanding. Disbelief in the pain. Disbelief that children should have to suffer to survive.

In the Great Hall, which currently hosted the early risers, Harry spotted Malfoy sitting upright and tense at the Gryffindor table. He was alone and receiving some unmitigated stares of disgust mixed with disbelief. 

Ron definitely looked shocked, the happy-go-lucky grin on his face dropping in an instant. Hermione inhaled a strained, strangled breath.

Today, he would not allow this to bother him, Harry thought. If Malfoy needed company, Harry would work with him. No one grew, healed, learned, became on their own. 

To further Ron and Hermione’s shock, Harry cruised over to the seat beside Malfoy, taking it with a certain finality. Malfoy’s stiff shoulders eased exponentially. It must have been the first time ever that the Slytherin was glad to see Harry. 

His friends joined him across from Malfoy with hesitation. Harry did not say a word.

Fed up without answers as Harry piled his plate with toast, eggs, and sausage, Ron spoke up. “Harry, would you enlighten us and tell us why we are sitting with this…  _ prick? _ ”

Malfoy stiffened up again. Harry carefully laid down his fork.

“Please try to be open-minded, Ron.” The words were new and, Harry found, exciting to say. 

Hermione’s mouth dropped visibly and Ron’s brows shot upward into his hairline. Harry was joking, but stifled a laugh anyway. It would be too inappropriate, he was purposefully provoking them.

“ _ I _ need to be more open-minded?” Ron gaped. “ _ He _ needs to be more open-minded.”

“Oh, definitely,” Harry agreed.

Ron choked. “What is this? Are you and… Malfoy all buddy-buddy now? Is that it?”

Harry faltered, unable to come up with an answer. 

“I have a theory,” Malfoy said unexpectedly.

All eyes turned to him.

“Godric’s Hollow,” Hermione sighed. “You two couldn’t have started with that?”

“I was unaware of the theory,” Harry said.

Ron’s brows furrowed, even more confused. “Then why’d you sit with him?”

Harry didn’t answer the question. He honestly couldn’t. Not without telling Ron about last night and to be honest, that was a private moment. Something impossible to share, even with his best friend.

“I don't think the pages even left the Library,” Malfoy said cautiously. “I don’t think they even left the record. I was… we were talking and the idea just came to me.”

What had Harry said to give Malfoy this idea?

“Oh, my.” Hermione’s lips parted. “You might be right. We never even checked for a concealment charm.”

Ron seemed beyond the point, staring at Harry, betrayed. “You were talking with Malfoy? This ferret-faced prick?”

“Watch it, Weasley,” Malfoy hissed.

A fire had been ignited in him. For once, Harry was on his side rather than Ron’s.

“I’ll hex you into next year and you know it,” Ron snapped. He was standing now, leaning over the table, trying to get in Malfoy’s face.

“Like that worked so well last time!”

“Oh, shut it you two,” Hermione interrupted, pulling Ron back down into his seat. “Malfoy, if this theory is correct, this might open a lot of possibilities for us. Harry is putting a lot of faith in you right now and to be quite frank, I don’t understand why. I honestly don’t even care to understand why. But I love Harry, so I am going to trust him about you on this.”

She turned to Ron.

“I love you very much, Ron, but you really do need to stop picking fights with everyone you disagree with. The last time you got into a scrabble with Malfoy he busted your lip open. I know you’re very protective over me and Harry, but just this once… let’s try to be civil.”

Ron grumbled, crossing his arms, but shutting up without argument.

“Thank you, ‘Mione,” Harry said.

She shook her head. “Just finish your breakfast, boys. We’ll head to the Library and check it out before classes start.”

***

The hike up to the Library was quiet and tense. Harry and Malfoy walked in front of Ron and Hermione, standing further apart than they had earlier that morning when the Astronomy Tower had been host to conversation.

“Ferret-faced prick?” Malfoy gaped, barely audible, to Harry. “Do people actually still call me that?”

“Just Ron.”

“Thank Merlin.”

“Why do you care?”

Malfoy floundered. “You were there, you should know. That was so embarrassing and… and wildly unprofessional, especially for a Professor. And… it happened in front of  _ you _ . 

“Well, it’s a good thing he wasn’t actually a Professor,” Harry said. “Just a Death Eater “ — Malfoy’s face squeezed tight — “wandering around with Mad Eye’s face.”

“Oh…” Malfoy breathed out. “Yes, I think I read about that in  _ the Daily Prophet _ .”

Their conversation ceased as they passed through the open doors of the Library. A musty, bookish smell hit Harry’s senses. He would never get over the smell of the Library. Ever. It was forever drenched in things of old, even the war couldn’t knock it out.

Malfoy made his way to the bookshelf with the school records. He let his finger, long and bony, trail across the spines.

“Do you remember the number?”

Harry nodded. “62442.”

Of course Harry remembered the number. He’d spent ages pouring over the book, reading about the missing items over and over and over again.

“Found it.”

Malfoy pulled it from the shelf and placed it on the attached desk. He flipped it opened, turning through the pages, skimming the words.

Behind them Ron and Hermione appeared, silent and curious. They leaned over Harry’s shoulder, down at the record book. It was old, incredibly old, but thankfully readable.

“This is the page,” Malfoy said, breath hitching.

Hermione pushed forward. “ _ Revelio _ .”

Where pages had once looked ripped from the record, shimmered into existence. They were crisp, just like they’d probably been the day the record was written. 

“You were right,” Harry whispered to Malfoy. 

A thin smile sat on the Slytherin’s lips. It vanished almost at once, but Harry had seen it and Harry knew.  _ He was proud of himself. _

Leaning over, Hermione read the words. “It says, ‘the Professors, unable to assist the students, sent a letter and requested the aide of the Ministry of Magic, which sent one of their employees from the Department of Magical Equipment Control. From professional opinion and discovery, the students and professors were subsequently notified of the genius architecture of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was from the clever minds of Godric Gryffindor, Helena Hufflepuff, Rowena Ravenclaw, and Salazar Slytherin, that the school was built through the intricate — though, at the time, very rare and delicate — ritual known as  _ combination magic. _ ”

“Combination magic…” Harry repeated, remembering McGonagall’s lesson.

“Yes, that’s what it says,” Hermione confirmed before carrying on. “The combination magic thus applied in the construction of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry—”

“They sure do love saying the whole name,” Ron muttered.

“—was put into effect through the mitigated friendship split between the four. Although it has been discovered that the four indeed shared a tense relationship, especially with that of Salazar Slytherin, they were still known to have once had a close, familial relationship with one another. One could even state that the very foundation of Hogwarts was built upon their love and friendship with one another.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Malfoy scoffed. “ _ Love? _ ”

“I’ve got to agree with Malfoy,” Harry said. “I mean, I do understand that love can be a very powerful source of magic, but still. How does that even factor into a structural creation? Inanimate objects don’t have a sense of love.”

Ron frowned. “Eh, some do.”

“Oh, Hogwarts is most definitely alive,” Malfoy butted in. “It just doesn’t make sense for the very core of it to be centered around love.”

“Of course  _ you’d _ say that,” Ron muttered.

“What’s that supposed to mean, Weasley?”

“Ugh, you are all so insufferable,” Hermione moaned. “Can we just… this is helpful. It does sort of make sense, you know.”

“How so?”

“Well, the items being taken all seem to be personal to the people that they belong to,” Hermione said. “My… my ring belonged to my mother and I’ve kept it around for safekeeping and also… it reminds me of her.”

“And I’ve lost my map,” Harry agreed.

“Wait, that means…” Hermione trailed off.

“What? That Ron’s most treasured possession is a pair of Chudley Cannons pajamas?” 

Harry and Hermione both snorted. Although Malfoy’s face remained a mixture of confusion and disgust, while Ron’s eyes twitched with an ungentle fury. Though, it slowly eased into a comedic grin as Harry’s joke tumbled through his head.

“You arsehole,” Ron said with a short laugh.

“No.  _ No _ ,” Hermione said as a giggle floated from her mouth. “There’s more in the record. I think it’s about where the items went. And possibly how they got them back.”

“Okay, carry on then.”

Hermione nodded and spoke gently. Her words came in a flurry of ocean waves riding subtly to the shore and soaking in the hot sand.

“The Ministry employee from the Department of Magical Equipment Control surmised a theory that the possessions — which carried an amalgamation of love and care from each of the students — were being taken to reconstruct areas of the castle. In coming to this theory, the employee noted that the reconstruction of magical structures does not essentially need to come from builders. The magic is already ingrained in the structure, it just needs a boost — in this case, adolescent innocence and love — to rebuild its purpose. 

“Furthermore, the employee discovered that there had been recent damage afflicted to the East Side of the castle when a horrible thunderstorm struck the side of a tower and sent it crumbling away. Some Magical Architects had come to repair the tower, but it rejected their attempts to fix it, as the damage was minuscule and the castle could repair the damage itself. The Ministry employee journeyed up to the tower and found the items stored in an ancient chest protected by ancient runes.”

“Bam! Mystery solved,” Ron said merrily. “Find a part of Hogwarts still in ruin.”

“That isn’t possible,” Malfoy intoned. “I… We repaired every part of it. And the part in there where it says that the castle rejected the magic to rebuild the tower… that doesn’t make any sense.”

“Know a lot about that do you, Malfoy?” Ron asked rudely. 

“Quite so,” Malfoy replied. “Wizards magic is all that was used to repair Hogwarts after the Battle. I know because I was sentenced to five months of community service, which, by the way, Weasley, I am still very much participating in. I helped reconstruct different towers and I can tell you, it did not reject  _ my _ magic.”

Ron huffed. Harry patted his friend’s arm absentmindedly.

“Okay, if everything is repaired, then where are the items going?” Hermione pondered.

“What if…” Harry started to say, mind blazing. “What if not every part of Hogwarts has been repaired? What if there’s still a room that’s destroyed?”

“Not possible,” Malfoy sniffed. 

“You don’t know that for sure.”

“I know well enough.”

Ron cut through their back-and-forth. “Why was this even hidden?”

“Maybe the Ministry concealed it?”

“But why?”

“Who knows,” Harry said. “The Ministry is just several layers of corruption stacked on top of one another.”

“Someday I’ll fix that,” Hermione said.

Ron nodded. “We know.”

“Okay, but say Harry is right, we should try looking for it,” Hermione rebounded back to their original conversation. “Do any of you, Malfoy especially since you helped rebuild, have any idea where we should start?”

Harry and Ron shook their heads, but Malfoy just stared straight ahead at the bookshelf.

“Malfoy?” Harry asked tentatively.

“The Room of Hidden Things,” Malfoy said. “No one even knows that room exists. It suffered damage that only  _ we _ know about.”

“Merlin,” Hermione gasped. “Are you sure?”

Malfoy nodded. 

“It makes sense,” Harry agreed. “I thought it got… destroyed completely, but if there’s a possibility…”

“We should check,” Hermione said. “At lunch, when we have time. We’ll meet up on the seventh floor and check.”

The plan seemed reasonable to everyone as they left the Library for classes. This time Harry and Malfoy followed behind Ron and Hermione, their steps in sync. 

“What map?”

“I…” Harry said, confused. “What map?”

“Your missing map,” Malfoy clarified. “What map?”

“Oh, er… It’s a map of Hogwarts.”

“Where’d you get it?”

“It was a gift from some friends,” Harry replied, thinking fondly back on Fred and George. “I learned later that my father and  _ his _ friends made it. It shows the whole school and all the people in it and where they are at any given time.”

Malfoy paused.

“That’s perverted,” he gaped.

“Eh,” Harry said, shuffling on his feet, “I think it was created with the sole intention to sneak about and not get caught.”

“Is that what you use it for?”

“Sometimes.”

*** 

Harry stood in the seventh-floor corridor in front of a large, blank brick wall opposite the infamous tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy. He was waiting for the others to show up, as they all had their first period together and he did not.

Curiously, Harry withdrew his wand and moved forward. He tapped the brick with the tip softly. “I hope this works.”

“Harry!”

He wheeled around and saw Ron and Hermione rushing toward him. Behind them lagged Malfoy, taller than both, but seemingly smaller in their presence.

“Have you tried already?” Hermione asked.

Harry shook his head. “No.”

“Okay, let’s try it then,” she said.

Hermione, always the sharpest of the trio, walked past the entrance to the room three times. Harry watched her with gleaming eyes. She had quick, steady feet and a face of iron-will.

Nothing.

She paced three times in front of the entrance again.

Still nothing.

“Are you thinking about what you want?” Ron asked impatiently.

“Obviously, you dolt!”

Malfoy sniggered, he was standing as far away from the room as he could. But not far enough from Ron’s reach, who punched him hard in the arm.

“Ow!” Malfoy cried, grabbing the sore spot with a tender hand.

“Serves you right, you arsehole.”

“Lay off him, Ron,” Harry said. Ron only grumbled at his words.

Hermione stopped trying after her fifth go. They had accomplished absolutely nothing in the last ten minutes.

“At least we know this is most likely the room,” she said. “The only problem is we can’t get in, which means that the room hasn’t fully healed.”

Harry kicked at the floor, scuffing his shoes even further. He didn’t care.

Why did everything always have to be so difficult? For once, couldn’t something just be handed nicely to Harry? He was desperate for all of this to end.

This hunt for everyone’s missing items — though not quite missing anymore; if anything, it was only just… unobtainable — was only fueling Harry’s refusal for Aurorship. If he kept going down this path, being asked to solve impossible tasks and asked, and asked only because he was the Boy Who Lived, it would tear him apart.

“Fuck,” Harry grumbled, kicking at the floor once more for extra measure.

Ron reached out to grab Harry and comfort him, but Harry shoved his arm away.

Barely a few feet away, Malfoy stood, swaying uncomfortably. Harry presumed that the Slytherin was unsure of what to do. His face was criss-crossed with lines. 

Malfoy had stopped looking young in their sixth year, for more reasons than one.

“Mate, we’ll figure this out. Okay?”

Harry sighed. “Yeah. Okay. Just… you two should head down to lunch. I’ll keep… I’ll give it a go myself, yeah?”

Hermione did not look persuaded, but she reached for Ron, dragging him away. “It won’t work, Harry. No matter how many times you try. We should just look into some other time. Or wait for the room to finish healing.”

With hurried shoes striking the floor of the corridor, Ron and Hermione scrambled out of sight, leaving Malfoy and Harry alone in front of what should be the entrance to the Room of Requirement.

“Potter, I…” Malfoy said faintly, and dropped to his knees.

His pale hands grasped at the stony floor, and Malfoy shuddered violently, his eyes flickering open and shut. Harry dropped to his side, hesitantly putting a hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, trying to help steady him.

“Malfoy?”

Malfoy was gasping with harsh, quick breaths. He looked up at Harry, vulnerability revealed behind a clear, glossy sheen of scared silver eyes.

“I couldn’t push it down any longer,” Malfoy choked out. “The fire…”

“Hey, hey, it’s gone. It’s over. I pulled you out. I got you out,” Harry said hurriedly.

“I can’t… I… hard to breathe…”

A panic-attack. Harry knew of these all too well. He’d struggled with them a lot the first month after the war, when the mass of funerals were in progress and the trials loomed like a dark cloud overhead.

“Do you want me to take you away from the room?” Harry asked.

Malfoy nodded, shaking on his knees.

Harry hoisted him from the floor with strong arms and pulled him away from the room slowly. They headed away from the Room of Requirement and Harry carefully set Malfoy on a lonely bench in the corridor.

“Concentrate on your breathing,” Harry said in a whisper. “I’ve had panic-attacks, too. I can get you through this.”

Malfoy’s chest rose slowly, still a little jumpy at first, but soon he was breathing evenly. Harry still had an arm wrapped around Malfoy. It was disconcerting and Harry himself did not quite understand how they’d gotten to be in this situation. 

It seemed only yesterday that they’d been at each other’s throats. Two raging lions in a constant, competitive battle to assert dominance. Now they sat together, Malfoy more defenseless than ever.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Malfoy breathed out.

He looked like he was going to cry. Harry felt a pang of sympathy. 

Harry had seen Malfoy cry before. He knew how embarrassing it must be for one to be so vulnerable in front of their life-long enemy turned… somewhat  _ only  _ companion. 

“You can’t tell anyone about this,” Malfoy said sternly.

“Okay.”

Malfoy paused, conflicted.

“It’s not me I see whenever I imagine the Room of Hidden Things… burning up,” he whispered as though it was the most terrifying thing to confess aloud.

“Who is it, then?”

Harry didn’t mean to pry, but he wanted to know. 

“Crabbe,” Malfoy replied, and then added even more quietly that Harry thought he must’ve dreamt it: “And you, sometimes.”

“Oh.”

There was a torrent of thoughts barreling through Harry’s mind and he felt like asking more questions, but Malfoy didn’t look like he wanted to add anything else.

Harry was utterly baffled by these new string of encounters with Malfoy that seemed to get emotional really fast. He didn’t mind it, though, because he was interacting with a much better version of Malfoy, but it  _ was _ odd. As if Malfoy had suddenly flipped his dynamic and become someone new. 

“I’m going to lunch,” Malfoy said quietly. “Don’t sit by me.”

“Okay. Are you going to be alright?”

“I’ll be fine.”

“Cool,” Harry replied, feeling completely uncool.

Malfoy stood, starting toward the staircase. He glanced back at Harry one last time, like an old friend, and gave a small smile. Harry reciprocated. 

This was something he was definitely not telling Ron about. It would get weird real quick. He wanted to savor this new Malfoy. Keep him for himself. To test the waters and see if Malfoy’s good behavior wasn’t just some cheap farce. 

Harry got up to follow.


	10. chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I came to know myself, and this frightened me.” — The Autobiography of My Mother, Jamaica Kincaid

That evening, Harry found himself hunched over his assignment for Ancient Studies with displeasure. His class had all been asked to compile a three-foot-long parchment detailing the development of old Magical historical sites, and Hermione wasn’t in the class to help him.

Harry’s wrist already ached and he could barely lift his hand to write more. It was tormenting and the joy, if there ever was any, Harry had felt when he had first started the class was fading immensely. 

If he didn’t hex Professor Cloven by the end of the school year, Harry would call that an accomplishment in and of itself.

He glanced up at the clock which read, in old gothic numbers, 10 p.m. and sighed. Too tired to finish, Harry stowed away his homework. He could finish it later in the Library.

Cracking his fingers and stretching out on his back, which popped from leaning over too long, Harry noticed a figure tucked in the corner of the room. They were shrouded in darkness and appeared to just be sitting there, staring off into the distance.

Harry edged closer, doing his best not to appear like he was watching. A sliver of flames rose up from the fireplace, crackling, and flashed across the person’s face, highlighting them for a moment.

Malfoy. Alone again.

His arms were crossed, his eyes unblinking. For a minute Harry entertained the idea that maybe Malfoy was one of those people who could sleep without closing their eyes. Then Malfoy blinked and Harry trashed the theory.

He stood from the couch, slinging his book bag over his shoulder, and headed over to Malfoy. There was an extra, empty seat beside him, which Harry took.

“Nice evening,” Harry said as he sat.

Malfoy, startled, turned to look at him curiously. “Potter.”

“Have Parkinson and Zabini already gone off to bed?”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Oh,” Harry muttered. “Why’s that? I thought you guys were friends. I guess… I know you don’t hang out with them often anymore.”

Malfoy’s eyes fluttered downward and he fiddled with the cuff of his starch shirt. He was wearing it loose, and he appeared incredibly thin.

“I haven’t ‘hung out’ with them at all this year,” Malfoy replied. “You clearly don’t  _ know _ me enough.”

“And?”

“I don’t care to talk about it,” Malfoy said stiffly. “Don’t ask for anything else, Potter.”

His voice had begun to lose its buoyancy. He’d become monotonous, an automaton, frugal in the way he searched and applied his words.

Harry, who had already opened his mouth to ask further, closed it. He watched Malfoy shift uncomfortably in his armchair.

Somehow approaching Malfoy all of a sudden felt more personal than it had before. When he’d first shown up to be Malfoy’s partner in Potions on that one fateful day, it felt more like an obligation rather than a choice. Now Harry was actively seeking out the Slytherin more and more.

He  _ wanted _ to know more about Malfoy now. Wanted to learn about why he hadn’t given Harry up at Malfoy Manor, why he didn’t turn Harry in to Voldemort during the Battle of Hogwarts, why he was suddenly acting the way he was. 

Talking to Harry. Telling him  _ things _ , no matter the insignificance to the big picture. 

There was a part of Harry clinging to the idea that maybe Malfoy really had changed. That the war had affected him in such a way to reverse entirely his hateful thinking.

A part of Harry hoped that Malfoy no longer objected to Muggleborn’s being taught magic. That he would no longer diss Ron for being poor. Hoping that Malfoy was disgusted at his past usage of ‘Mudblood’ to describe Hermione. That he was remorseful about letting Death Eaters into Hogwarts.

And then another part of Harry hated himself for that way of thinking. Hated himself for trying to make Malfoy appear nicer. 

Even if he was, that didn’t dismiss anything. Even though he had apologized to Harry once, that wasn’t going to fix the plethora of problems Malfoy had created in his short existence. 

“Why are you here, Potter?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know what I mean,” Malfoy huffed. “I mean, why did you come over and sit with me?”

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “You looked lonely, I guess.”

“And you thought that your companionship would suddenly make me less lonely?”

_ It did. It was very visible on Malfoy’s features. _

“Er… yes?” Harry replied. “I’m the only person you talk to. I helped you through a panic attack only hours ago.”

Malfoy dismissed his words. “I think you must have forgotten that we hate each other.”

“You know that’s not true anymore.”

Malfoy froze. He frowned, but his eyes betrayed him. He looked soft and thankful, but at the same time, like he was trying to reject Harry’s statement.

It was evident that Malfoy did not think he was worthy of Harry Potter. Which is the very thing that made him more worthy than most.

“No,” he agreed simply.

He shook his head, letting his long blond hair fall into his face. It had grown since the war. And Malfoy, although plain and simple in the dimly lit common room, was attractive, Harry thought.

Brushing his conclusion aside, Harry asked, “Are you busy this weekend?”

“Why are you asking?”

“Are you busy or not?”

“I’m not busy, no,” Malfoy answered.

Harry wet his lips, suddenly feeling a pool of confidence gather in his chest. “I was wondering, just now, if you would like to come to Hogsmeade with me and everyone else this Saturday? I haven’t asked them about it, but I’m sure they won’t mind.”

Taken aback, Malfoy stared dumbly at Harry with awe.

“I, er…” he trailed.

“You don’t have to come,” Harry shrugged. “I was just thinking since—”

Malfoy cut him off. “No, I will come. Thank you for asking.”

Harry grinned graciously. From the depths of his mind, Harry’s plan to integrate Malfoy into his group was taking shape.

Perhaps saving Draco Malfoy from Azkaban was the greatest idea Harry had ever had.

If he was the one to turn around Malfoy, help him become a good person. A better person. Help fix all the bad things the best he could, then that would be one hell of an accomplishment.

Harry didn’t want to use Malfoy as a pawn, though. He knew that feeling all too well, and assumed Malfoy knew it too.

Instead, he introduced an idea: Malfoy had grown up in an environment that allowed him to exercise what was taught to him from an early age. His father had bestowed the knowledge that Muggles, Muggleborns, and Squibs were all lesser. He’d grown up surrounded by Death Eaters, his father was one, and the fathers of all his friends had been Death Eaters, too.

Perhaps, Harry thought, if Malfoy had only grown up with a positive adult figure in his life, with friends that weren’t surrounded by those who sided with bad, then he might not have been the bully that he was.

Deep down, Harry thought, feeling strange, that Malfoy was never meant to be the bad guy.

Although, that didn’t negate his past actions.  _ Godric _ , why did Harry even care so much about trying to make Malfoy look better than he was?

“Goodnight, Potter,” Malfoy broke through his thoughts.

Harry looked up at Malfoy, who was starting to head toward the dorm room. “Night.”

***

The weekend came in a flurry of cold winds and rattling windows. Harry found himself double layering his socks, wrapping his old Gryffindor scarf around his neck twice, and shoving a grey beanie over his wild hair. He pulled a warm winter cloak around his shoulders, letting the material sag and tangle around his legs.

Peering out the window one last time before heading out to the common room, Harry could only see a white expanse stretching into the distance. The hills had been swallowed completely by ice and snow. Loud, chilly gusts of wind rolled through the stretch of valleys, over the watery sheet of the Black Lake, and twisted around the turrets and towers of the castle. 

Feeling oddly nostalgic, Harry headed toward the door, passing by Malfoy, who was still searching for his fur hat. His blond hair was ruffled, as Malfoy frantically burrowed into the drawer attached to his bedside table, searching and searching.

“Er…” Harry said. “See you down in the common room, I guess.”

Malfoy whipped around, acknowledged Harry’s meek comment, and returned to the drawer. Not planning to stay a second longer, Harry ducked into the common room.

His friends were all already gathered in front of the fireplace, which simmered with small, snappy sparks.

They were all dressed for the winter weather. Luna was wearing a blue beanie pressed on top of her glossy hair, and Neville was rubbing his gloved hands together for a sliver of warmth. Dean and Seamus were dressed in matching hats, scarves, and gloves. Ron was sporting a cheerful grin, Hermione was stuffing something last minute into her beaded purse, and then there was Ginny, who had decided to mimic Harry with an equally bright red and gold Gryffindor scarf. 

“Ready to head out?” Ron asked Harry. “We’ve all been waiting for some time.”

Harry readjusted his scarf. “In a minute. I’m waiting on someone.”

“Harry, you can’t just invite more people without telling us first,” Hermione said exasperated.

“Well, I did anyway.”

He heard the door to his room click shut and turned to see Malfoy, donned with the fur hat he had been searching for. His outfit was reminiscent to that of third year, when Harry had sent him running and screaming like a Banshee from the Shrieking Shack look-out point. 

Now, it just made Harry’s stomach flutter. Malfoy looked so much more put together. In third year, the outfit had worn Malfoy, now it was vice versa.

“Are we heading out now?” he asked.

It also didn’t help that Malfoy appeared incredibly nervous — a rare emotion that he tried not to wear often — which gave him an endearing sort of soft edge that Harry was not used to Malfoy having. If one did not know Malfoy’s history, they would have said that right now, he looked kind and mature.

“Yes, I think so,” Harry answered.

Ron turned to Harry as the group left through the portrait and carried on down to the courtyard, from which they would trek to Hogsmeade. He mouthed ‘Malfoy?’ to Harry. Harry shrugged in response. ‘It seems that way,’ he mouthed back.

At the forefront of the group, Ginny and Luna were engaged in what appeared to be a rousing conversation, although Harry could not quite hear whatever it was. Following behind, Neville walked beside Dean and Seamus, who had their pinkies linked, and was chattering on about his plans for Hogsmeade.

Ron had split off to be with Hermione, which had left Harry and Malfoy to themselves. Again. It was starting to become quite a common occurrence, and though he was loath to admit it, Harry was happily getting used to it.

“I don’t know why I agreed to come along,” Malfoy said in a clipped tone. “None of them even want me here. Except maybe Luna, but she’s… yeah.”

“Hey, well, I asked you to come, so maybe I want you here,” Harry replied.

And if Malfoy’s cheeks weren’t already red from the cold, Harry would have sworn he blushed. A fraction of Malfoy’s pale face had grown redder.

“I’m planning on doing a little shopping while we’re there,” Harry continued. “So if you want to head off somewhere else then that’s cool.”

“No, I’ll… I’ll stay with you. I don’t really need anything.”

Harry laughed. “You were right to ask why you agreed to come along, then.”

“Maybe I wanted company this weekend,” Malfoy said, mocking offense. 

The pathway narrowed as the large group trudged through the courtyard and past the iron-wrought fence that would lead them up to Hogsmeade. Surrounded by a three-foot cobblestone wall, Harry and Malfoy walked shoulder-to-shoulder at the back of the group.

Harry could hear Malfoy’s rapid breaths. He tried to train his ears to the sound of Hermione’s laughter ahead, instead, but failed miserably.

“Are we doing that now?”

“Doing what?” Malfoy asked.

“Joking around, I guess,” Harry said warily.

Malfoy kicked at a lump of snow in the middle of the path. It came up off the ground, breaking apart into a million pieces in the air.

“I wasn’t joking,” Malfoy replied. “You know, when I said I wanted company.”

“Oh.”

“I don’t have many friends anymore,” Malfoy said unexpectedly and without question. “I understand why. After the war, nobody wanted anything more to do with my family. We were once pillars of the Pureblood community. People respected us, looked up to us. And then we were on the losing side of the war. See, don’t get me wrong, Potter, but I wanted nothing to do with being a Death Eater when I realized the true horrors that came with it.”

Harry swallowed harshly, staring straight ahead. He absolutely refused to look at Malfoy now. Just as Malfoy had been vulnerable earlier, displayed for Harry to see, in front of the Room of Requirement, Harry would feel just as open. Just as judged.

“Why didn’t you try to rebel?” Harry asked curiously. “Get away from it all? Join our side?”

“I was chosen by… by the Dark Lord himself. To protect my family from further humiliation. It came at a heavy cost, which I am still paying for now,” Malfoy replied. “And you know, I am almost like you. I can’t just choose to break away from my destiny. And there are things that separate us. I am not a hero, you are.”

“You could’ve been. You could’ve tried to be a hero,” Harry said.

“No… no, you don’t understand.”

“Actually, I think I understand clearly,” Harry went on. “We all make choices that can be subjected to criticism. There are paths you can take to reverse those criticisms, however.”

“There’s where you’re wrong.  _ I _ didn’t choose.  _ I was chosen. _ ”

“And that’s not a choice?”

Malfoy reached out and grabbed Harry’s wrist, holding on tight. “My father fucked up. He failed and I suffered for his failure. To be a Death Eater, then, receiving the Mark, it felt like an honor. Then they gave me a task. The worst task anyone could think of. It didn’t feel like an honor after that.” Malfoy’s face fell. “I was only sixteen.”

“I know,” Harry whispered.

Malfoy swallowed harshly, eyes returning to the path. If anyone had heard what they were talking about, they were pretending they didn’t.

“So just… I’m going to stay with you when we are at Hogsmeade, alright.”

“Yes, that’s fine.”

Up ahead, the group passed beneath the little sign introducing Hogsmeade. Icicles hung from the metal and a warm glow of light streamed from two lanterns flanking either side of the sign.

Hogsmeade came into view with thatched cottages pressed tightly together, snow gathered on their roofs, surrounded by sloping shops and students scurrying about from door to door. Arching lanterns lined the flag-stoned streets as little booths were set up in various places selling hot butterbeer and cocoa. 

“Ron wants to check out Zonkos and Honeydukes first,” Hermione whirled around to tell Harry. “Everyone was thinking about meeting up again at the Three Broomsticks for lunch. Is that okay?”

“Yes, good idea,” Harry replied.

“Okay, great,” Hermione said. “And er, Ron said to quote on quote, ‘Have fun with Malfoy.’”

Harry simply nodded. Ron could be a bit… jealous at times.

“See you two later.” Hermione waved goodbye.

The rest of the group had already dispersed, joining the rush of Hogsmeade students. The air was littered with laughter, but standing next to Malfoy, his hand still wrapped around Harry’s wrist, he felt like everyone was thousands of miles away. 

Realizing this fact himself, Malfoy let go. Harry immediately felt a heavy loss. 

“What do you need here?” Malfoy asked.

“Let’s… It’s cold. Let’s start with butterbeer.”

They walked together to one of the many booths and purchased two cups of butterbeer. Harry held his with both hands, trying to warm up his fingers. Malfoy sipped his own cautiously, getting foam above his upper lip.

It must have looked very odd to everyone else. Harry Potter and Draco Malfoy, two people who had, up until very recently, vocally disliked each other for nearly a decade, getting drinks together. Shopping together. Talking together, as if they were friends.

Harry worried that people might think he was trying to replace Ron. He was getting worried that Ron might think Harry was trying to replace Ron.  _ Godric _ , they would need to have a very long talk later.

For now, he would put away those dangerous thoughts and focus on what he came here for. For a good time at the Three Broomsticks later with his friends, to buy buckets of candy, and purchase some things he needed for school.

Their first stop was Honeydukes, which oozed with students milling inside and out. It was the most popular attraction at Hogsmeade, but they never sold out. Candy seemed to endlessly pour from shelves into students’ arms.

Harry scanned the shelves as Malfoy trailed behind, careful not to lose Harry in the crowd. He avoided grabbing onto Harry, which Ron had always done whenever they shopped here. 

From the selections, Harry purchased mostly chocolatey sweets and loads of treacle tart. Malfoy bought nothing, even though Harry knew he had a sweet tooth, which was evident over the years whenever his parents used to owl him foreign fancies. 

Next, Malfoy followed Harry into Scrivenshaft’s Quill Shop, lurking behind Harry as he picked out new parchment, ink, and a notebook. The shop was small and tight, bearing few customers and a bored cashier working upfront.

“I think I should like to pop over to Gladrags once you’ve finished,” Malfoy whispered hesitantly into Harry’s ear as he was busy running a finger down the feathers of a rather expensive looking quill.

“Can’t you go now?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“I don’t want to lose you,” Malfoy said.

Harry whipped around. “ _ What? _ ” 

“I mean, I don’t want to spend too much time there and forget what time to head over to the Broomsticks for lunch,” Malfoy explained.

Harry had a hunch he was lying, regarding the Slytherin warily. Malfoy was taller than Harry by a few inches, but the way he was holding himself now made him come off very small. He was nervous, Harry caught on.

“Fine.”

“Thank you.”

Harry didn’t ask ‘whatever for?’ even though he wanted to. He already knew the answer, but he itched for Malfoy to say it aloud.

Once the cashier rang up Harry’s items, they left the shop and strode across the way to Gladrags Wizardwear, which sat just opposite of Scrivenshaft’s. 

The butterbeer in Harry’s hand had gone cold. He didn’t risk spelling it hot again, it just wouldn’t be the same.

Inside Gladrags, mannequins lined the walls. They were all dressed in different styles and colors of cloaks, dress robes, and the traditional pointed hats. A tray of cuff links, which looked like they cost more than the Burrow, were displayed in a glittering array at the front of the shop.

Malfoy glanced at them and looked away, heading over towards a set of very fine dress robes. They were black, though the inside had been lined with a beautiful Forbidden Forest shade of green. The robes were a perfect fit for a Slytherin.

“The Ministry made my father pay a rather large fine after the war,” Malfoy said as he fingered the cloth. “I used to wear clothes like this all the time to parties they hosted. At Christmas, New Years, other important wizarding holidays. I am trying to break away from all of that now.”

“Yes, I heard about that.”

“The parties?”

“No, you pinhead, your family having to give up, what? Half of your vault at Gringotts?”

Malfoy sniffed. “A quarter of our vault at Gringotts, Potter.”

A stout witch had seemingly manifested out of thin air in front of them while they’d been talking. She had the face of a vulture, with thin lips and sharp, beady eyes. Her brows were drawn downward and mean-like. Harry was suddenly very aware of his fear of women who resembled his Aunt Petunia too much.

“Is there anything I can do for you boys?” she asked.

“Yes, actually,” Malfoy said. “I am looking for the muggle-wear section.”

Baffled, Harry’s eyes shifted over to Malfoy who stood defensively. His stance had assumed that of a person who believed they were about to be insulted. Or assaulted.

“Right this way.” The woman ushered for Harry and Malfoy to follow her. “You can find all our muggle-wear at the back of the shop. We don’t normally sell a lot of this type of clothing. I think you can understand why.”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes.”

The woman directed them to a very small selection of loose hanging multi-colored t-shirts, jeans, sweaters, coats, and various sized tennis shoes.

“If you need anything else just come find me,” she said and left.

Malfoy walked up to the t-shirts and began to rifle through them, clearly lost. He sighed, giving up, and turned to Harry.

“Could you help me, Potter,” Malfoy demanded.

Harry grinned. “So this is what you needed me for. Really giving up on your roots, aren’t you, Malfoy?”

“I’ve decided to try something new.”

“Yes, buying muggle clothes, I see.”

Malfoy huffed. “Just help me pick out what looks good. And don’t you dare make me look like a tosser, Potter. I will hex you in your sleep.”

“It can’t be that hard to match an outfit,” Harry said.

“None of these pieces look wearable.”

“Yes, they do.”

“They look repulsive.”

“Sure thing, Malfoy,” Harry waved him off.

He stepped over and pulled out a couple of form fitting t-shirts, some jeans that looked to be about Malfoy’s size, and sent Malfoy into one of the changing rooms. A few minutes later, Malfoy pulled back the curtain and stepped out an entirely different person.

It was quite odd to see the Slytherin wearing anything other than wizardwear, but it was a good sight. Something that Harry could easily get used to.

“How does it look?” Malfoy asked nervously.

Harry regarded him. “Good. You look nice. Normal.”

Malfoy pulled a funny face.

“I look like a half-wit,” Malfoy groaned. “It’s shit, isn’t it? This was such a terrible idea.”

“No, no, I don’t think so. Well… I do think the jeans look a little loose.”

Malfoy glanced down and fiddled with the fabric of the jeans. They made him look too much like Dudley and his gang. Baggy pants, hole-y shirts, untied shoelaces. That was not how a Malfoy should ever look, thought Harry.

Harry rummaged through the jeans left on the table. There weren’t that many, but he succeeded in finding a pair of skinny jeans, which he handed over to Malfoy.

“Try these.”

“Will they look better?”

“I don’t fucking know, Malfoy. Just try them on.”

Malfoy complied, dipping back behind the changing room curtain. He reappeared a moment later looking much more attractive than before. Harry grinned.

“Yes, they look better.”

Malfoy breathed a sigh of relief.

They checked out at the front, Malfoy reached deep into his cloak pocket for some loose galleons. He dropped them onto the counter with a clatter as the witch from before rang them up. She counted the money, wrapped up the clothes in a tight package tied it up with a neat string.

“If Weasley asks what these are, they are yours, not mine,” Malfoy said as they left. 

“Sure,” Harry laughed and then said: “It’s getting close to lunch.”

Malfoy agreed. Together, they strode through Hogsmeade, down to the Three Broomsticks, where students poured in and out of the large doors.

It took Harry a minute more to realize he was walking alone. He turned and saw Malfoy standing starstruck a few feet back, hesitant and scared. Fear painted the fine features of his pale, narrow face, making him appear like that of a timid child. 

Harry jogged back to Malfoy’s side and grabbed him by the wrist without complication.

“What’s wrong? Why aren’t you coming?”

Malfoy looked Harry straight in the eye. “No, I… I can’t go in there.”

“Yes, you can,” Harry said dumbly.

“No, you don’t get it,” Malfoy said. “I used the Imperius Curse on her. On Madam Rosmerta. It’s… it’s wrong of me to go in there. I won’t be wanted.”

“You used to go to a lot of places where you weren’t wanted.”

“Fuck off, Potter, you know this is different.”

Harry pulled Malfoy by the wrist, dragging him forward. “Oh you poor, miserable, little boy. Come. You’re going to go in there and apologize.”

Malfoy snatched his arm back and stared at Harry as though a beast had possessed him. “Are you insane? That won’t fix shit.”

“It might not,” Harry said. “But it’s better than sitting outside on your arse freezing to death.”

Together they trudged across the flagstone courtyard to the Three Broomsticks, which loomed ahead, a sight both warming and terribly frightening, depending on the person. 

Harry hadn’t considered this possibility. All the people that Malfoy had hurt on his crusade. He may have been one of them, but there were many.

This wouldn’t be easy. But when was anything that involved Malfoy ever easy.

Inside, the pub was filled with friendly chatter. Large tables were set up all throughout, all of them filled with an odd assortment of Hogwarts students. They leaned over meals and guzzled down warm drinks and spoke and spoke and spoke.

Harry waltzed Malfoy right up to Madam Rosmerta, who was in the middle of wiping down a table with a wet rag. She pressed the tip of her wand into the rag and it grew wetter and soapier.

“Good afternoon,” Harry greeted.

Madam Rosmerta turned with a grin. “Mr Potter!”

Her face fell suddenly when she saw who he had for company. The hand in which she held the rag went limp.

“I… There’s…” she trailed off.

Malfoy shifted uncomfortably on his feet. “I’ve come to apologize.”

“Keep going,” Harry urged him to carry on with a whisper.

“Madam.” Malfoy straightened his shoulders. “I’m sorry about all that business… back during the war. It’s… I took away your actions and your choices. That’s unforgivable.”

“Oh,” Madam Rosmerta breathed out simply. Her voice was so low Harry could have accidentally imagined her breath himself.

“I completely understand if you don’t want me here,” Malfoy continued. “Potter insisted and I am like a dog at his feet.”

Harry frowned and shoved at him. Now was not the time for… patronizing jokes.

“No, I…” Madam Rosmerta was at a loss for words. “You can stay. Just… Mr Potter, your friends are waiting in the back.”

With a heavy sigh, the barmaid turned around and went back to scrubbing. The muscles in her shoulders shifted as she worked, her arms pumping furiously. There was a nervous tick in her movement, but most of all, a hidden fury.

Harry understood it well. The decision of whether or not to accept someone’s words. Whether or not to provide forgiveness. And most importantly, the avoidance of looking into someone’s eyes after they’d apologized for your humility.

Near the back, Harry spotted Ginny and Luna, who waved him over. He pulled Malfoy along behind him.

“Harry, welcome, we’re just waiting on everyone else,” Ginny greeted.

He took a seat across from her and Malfoy hesitated before taking the spot beside him. Almost immediately, Luna swallowed Malfoy in a conversation, erasing any of the reluctance that he had been enveloped in.

Ginny raised her brows, pointedly glancing between him and Malfoy. Harry shrugged.

“Where did you guys go?” he asked.

“Honeydukes, obviously,” Ginny answered. “It was crowded. We were there for a long time just standing in line.”

“Yeah, same.”

The scuffling sound of chairs being pulled out turned Harry’s head to the right. Neville was taking a seat alongside Dean and Seamus, who were all toting packages stamped with Zonkos, Honeydukes, and Dervish and Banges.

Harry greeted them with a smile and they fell into conversation.

Neville spoke animatedly about a set of omnioculars that he’d picked up at Dervish and Banges. Beside him, Dean and Seamus argued over what to order for lunch. 

Ron and Hermione joined the group moments later, Ron taking the next open seat beside Harry. He was pointedly ignoring Malfoy’s presence as he pulled out a few things from Zonkos and began showing them off to Harry.

“Well, now that we know where our items are being held, we should start looking for ways to get inside,” Neville said after everyone had taken their seats.

After the dreadful occurrence outside the Room of Requirement (not the dreadful  _ Malfoy _ occurrence, however), Harry had informed the rest of the group. He heard later from Dean that Seamus had gone up and tried to get in, but failed just as miserably. He also heard from Seamus that Dean had done the same.

Everyone was starting to become increasingly desperate to get their possessions back. More things had continued to go missing. Seemingly vanishing in the middle of the night when everyone was turned on their side, fast asleep.

“I’ve run out of theories,” Hermione grumbled. “Everything I’ve thought up hasn’t ended up working out.”

“Then getting in is impossible, isn’t it,” Ron fretted.

Luna hummed. “Did you notice that there’s no activity in the seventh-floor corridor? It’s as though it has no soul anymore.”

Ron’s frown deepened. Hermione bit down on her lip, regarding Luna patiently.

No one seemed to take what she had to say seriously. It didn’t matter how much they appeared to love her, some of the things she said would always feel otherworldly and abnormal to everyone else. 

However, it was Malfoy who was the only one who continued to take her at her word.

“That could just mean all the magic from that corridor has been gathered up in the Room of Hidden Things, right?” he theorized.

Luna pondered this thought. “Perhaps. That is a very reasonable explanation.”

This had gained Hermione’s attention. Her eyes were alight, sparkling in the dimly lit pub. It was if an epiphany had bubbled to the surface of her mind.

“Do you think it could mean that the Room of Requirement acts as a hub for magic?” Hermione suggested. “I mean, I’ve never really thought about _ how _ the room was able to sum up whatever one wanted, but if it was acting as a core… we would be able to explore a whole new side of magic.”

“Maybe,” Malfoy said.

Harry mulled over Hermione’s words. “So if we couldn’t get into the room before, it was because we were lacking the magic required?”

“Possibly,” Hermione replied. “The Room of Requirement is a powerful fountain of magic. It’s using all of the magic that it can scrounge up to rebuild itself. Getting the room to open up to anyone might require more magic than we can summon.”

“That’s just  _ wonderful _ ,” Ron grumbled.

“There could be more than just that,” Malfoy said. “The room has been gathering magic for months to heal. It could be very difficult to open for a very long while.”

At his realization, Malfoys shoulders drooped, his body sagging. The initial, hopeful prophetization had turned sour and relenting.

There were things behind that sealed-up wall that they all wanted back. Things that they needed, things that they wanted, things that mattered deeply to each of them in their own way.

Pieces of their lives were stuck inside a room they couldn’t possibly open. Harry’s map. Malfoy’s journal. Hermione’s ring.

It was hard to imagine that they would find the solution buried in another textbook from the Library or get answers from a helpful professor or sum up the knowledge all on their own. Everything now depended on the room itself and its supposed strength.

The group remained quiet as they ordered their lunch. Madam Rosmerta, staying as far opposite from Malfoy, scribbled their orders with a Self-Scribing Quill and told them their food would be out in a jiff. 

This wasn’t at all how they imagined they would be spending their afternoon, but it was what they got. An answer with a harsh slap in the face from magic. 

How was it that magic could be the solution to so many things and at the same time, the root of the problem for so many others?


	11. chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I see you everywhere, in the stars, in the river, to me you’re everything that exists; the reality of everything.” — Night and Day, Virginia Woolf

The following Wednesday, Harry found himself down at the edge of the Black Lake once more. A sheet of ice had blanketed the water as snow nipped at the base of the shore. The cold crept up beneath the boots he wore, making the tips of his socks wet and uncomfortable.

Flakes of frost fell into Harry’s hair, crowning him. He felt perfectly lost. Like a blizzard had come up and swallowed him whole.

The group still hadn’t been able to come up with a solution that would bring them into the Room of Requirement. A few days ago, Harry had taken it upon himself to visit the blank wall, pressing his hands up against the cold bricks. 

Nothing still.

No large accumulation of magic. No hot core of power vibrating from beyond. Only the steady hum from a torch flickering against the tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy.

Harry had felt like crying. Sinking down to the floor and letting tears pool from his eyes, an insufficient remedy for an unsolvable game.

It had been a while since he’d cried as well, he thought desperately, grasping. Perhaps it was a good time to remind himself that he was still alive. That he could feel and be sad.

He hadn’t cried, then, but he felt like crying now. Eyes trained on the horizon, the frozen lake stretching and stretching until it disappeared behind small mountains and an amass of fog. Feet cold, stuck to the ground. Body shivering. Tears prickling.

Harry almost didn’t realize the sudden presence of a person sneaking up behind him. It was only the crunch of snow beneath their footsteps that had given away their closeness.

“Potter.”

_ Malfoy. _

“I saw you sneaking out of the Great Hall.”

“And you decided to follow me?”

“Well, yes.”

Harry shoved his hands into his pockets and slowly took a step away from the edge of the lake. His shoes had left a deep indentation where he’d been standing for so long.

“Why did you come out here again?” Malfoy asked. 

He moved forward to stand beside Harry. His presence felt like that of a warm blanket. Something homely. Something safe. Something comfortably shocking.

“It was too loud inside,” Harry said. “I needed some space.”

“Your friends think that you are forgetting about them.”

Harry paused. “Well, I’m not. Sometimes I don’t need to tell them everything.” He shivered. “I think that they believe otherwise.”

Malfoy sighed. He lacked his fur hat. 

His bright, blond hair tossed lazily in the winter wind. The tips of his ears were capped with red, as was his small, rounded nose. Malfoy looked like what children thought fairies often appeared as— sharp cheekbones, a cherubic nose, soft, untouchable eyes, pale skin, a forbidden face.

“I know you’re thinking about the Room of Hidden Things again.”

“Would you like me to stop?”

“Er, no,” Malfoy shuffled awkwardly in the snow. “I just… it’s distracting you. You haven’t been paying attention in Potions as of late. All of this… not knowing, I can see that it’s weighing you down.”

“So what if it is? Why do you care?”

“I care a great deal,” Malfoy answered. His face sported deep lines and Harry assumed that Malfoy now regretted coming to the edge of the Black Lake to seek him out. “My grade simply can not suffer any more in that class, Potter, and you know it.”

Harry grunted, amused at the twist in Malfoy’s words. 

There was something there, however, that Malfoy was burying. Stuffing deep down in his chest, pocketing it away, keeping it safe from Harry’s prying ears.

“I can go partner up with Ron, then,” Harry said. “I think he would be very happy if I decided to be his partner again.”

“No. Don’t you dare.”

“Then don’t complain,  _ Malfoy _ .”

Silence buried them for a solid minute. The snow came barreling down harder now. It stamped itself in Malfoy’s hair, in his warm cloak, devouring him in a whirlwind of white.

The clump of trees that bordered both the Forbidden Forest and the Black Lake shuddered. Branches came alive and shook away the frost from their shivering leaves. It made the grounds of Hogwarts sound like the rebounding echo of a great sigh.

Harry stopped, for the time being, feeling so alone. So lost.

Right now he had the trees, the castle, the lake, the Quidditch Pitch standing erect, opposite the frozen body of water. He had the company of Malfoy, which, for the first time, didn’t feel odd or forced.

“I have a theory,” Malfoy said suddenly, breaking the eerie calm. “I don’t know if you will agree to it, however.”

Harry regarded his words.

What was it that Harry wouldn’t agree to? He was getting desperate, more so by every passing second. Again. The last time he’d felt this desperate he’d been camping deep in the heart of a forest with Ron and Hermione, running from the world.

“Is it dangerous?”

“In a sense.”

Harry pressed. “Just tell me already.”

“We came to the consensus that the Room of Hidden Things requires a multitude of magic to function and that one person alone was practically powerless in opening it, yes?” Malfoy simplified.

Harry frowned, motioning for Malfoy to continue.

“I want to test the idea of combination magic,” he presented. “If Hogwarts itself was constructed with the foundation of such magic, then perhaps parts of the school also require such to keep it functioning.”

Harry hummed. “So you want the two of us to try combination magic to open the Room of Requirement?”

“Essentially, yes.”

“That would require physical contact.”

“Yes,” Malfoy said simply, bowing his head. “I said you might not agree to my idea.”

Snow was forming a circlet on his hair now. It made Malfoy look angelic, as if he bore a halo rather than a simple golden crested crown. 

Harry kicked at the snow on the ground. He was dreading this part of the conversation. As much as he was getting used to Malfoy’s presence, there were things that Harry feared exploring any further.

But he’d helped Malfoy purchase muggle clothing and not laughed at him. They’d spoken shortly about the war and their roles. They were leaning into territory marked ‘understanding.’

It was difficult trying to draw a thin line on what went on whenever he was with Malfoy.

“Okay, let’s try it,” Harry said confidently.

“Really?”

“Try not to sound so desperate, Malfoy.”

Malfoy huffed. “I am not  _ desperate _ , Potter.”

Harry took this chance to spare a quick glance at Malfoy. He was watching Harry right back, a friendly gleam in his eye. Harry glanced away, unable to formulate thoughts of any kind. Now was not the time for such trivial matters, he surmised.

A soft tremor ran through Harry’s body. He felt incredibly light, even bundled up under three layers of clothing and an additional heavy cloak. 

Harry wanted nothing more than to indulge in this tremor. He knew it was Malfoy’s fault. Everything was Malfoy’s fault.

“Let’s go inside,” Harry said. “It’s getting late.”

“The feast has probably ended,” Malfoy agreed. “Everyone will probably be wondering where you went off to.”

The two boys turned their backs on the Black Lake and trudged up the snowy hill, treading toward the large oak doors of the castle. Hogwarts, illuminated in front of them, even the dark window-panes in the winter dusk, glowed.

Malfoy panted slightly, a ghost-like breath on his lips, as they pushed through the doors and entered the grand foyer. Gilt-framed portraits greeted them with joyous laughter, loud chatter, and the occasional rattle of a knight’s horse dressed full-body in armor.

Instead of making their way to the eighth year common room, Malfoy led Harry to the moving staircases. They climbed steadily upward, progressing toward the Room of Requirement, a furious tension mounting between them.

The fire from the torches pinned against the walls in the corridors cast long shadows across Malfoy’s white face. He appeared somewhat somber concealed beneath the short beams from the dim lights. Something, Harry could tell, was aching within him.

Unspoken words. Actions cast away.

When they stopped, seven stories high, in front of the blank canvas that led into the room, Malfoy stood hesitant, a few feet in front of Harry. 

On the way up they’d hardly spoken a word. Just simply let the heat from the castle settle into their bones, warping their minds and thoughts and actions.

And standing here now, they were a bedraggled sight. Outsiders looking in would be able to note the tired infestation of lonesomeness stuck to the inside of their souls. 

Sure, Harry had a great many friends, but the definition of ‘alone’ felt like a constant press on his heavy heart. He couldn’t even begin to understand the weight of Malfoy’s own loneliness.

Who did he have? His mother? Stuck in the confines of Malfoy Manor?

Or his father, who was shackled up in Azkaban, spending eternity with his wrists in chains? Malfoy only had himself and the pieces of Harry that he was letting Malfoy have.

Gazing upon the wall, the emptiness struck odd with Harry. Somehow just knowing that there was something meant to be there that wasn’t, ingrained deep in the existence of Hogwarts, carved a gaping hole in Harry’s chest.

The lack of access they had to the Room of Requirement was deranged. It had forever been a part of Hogwarts, a secret safe-space, and now it was like it never had been. Burned away. Set alight and misaligned in the Fiendfyre.

“When did you come up with this idea?”

Harry’s eyes trailed over the back of Malfoy’s slender neck. Malfoy’s shoulders were broad and forceful, training himself not to fall into fear once more.

“This afternoon in Potions, when you spaced off,” Malfoy said. “I think it all just… came to me suddenly.”

“And to think, you were just on my case for thinking about the room when you were busy doing the exact same,” Harry teased. He laughed, slowly working to dissolve the tension between one another and the upcoming attempt to open to the Room of Requirement. 

“Oh, shut it, Potter,” Malfoy fussed. “At least I got somewhere with  _ my _ thinking.”

Malfoy was right for once. 

Harry was unable to formulate ideas, a response, an action to establish reconnection. His mind was too busy being occupied by thoughts of failure. Too distracted by trying to envision a world where he succeeded in his own terms, not just by the help of others.

Harry had come to realize, soon after, that help was necessary to succeed.

Without Ron and Hermione, he would have been stuck searching for Horcruxes until the end of time. And if Harry and Malfoy succeeded now, in opening the Room of Requirement, then he’d be in debt to Malfoy’s help.

His life remained one big circle. Neverending, always repeating.

Doomed to the presence of others. Relationships with those he’d loved forever and then, now, new friendships where barriers were constantly being torn down.

“Will you be okay?” Harry asked.

“Pardon?”

“Er, last time we were here you kind of… had a panic attack.”

Malfoy paused, his hands limp by his sides. He stood rigid in front of Harry, stoic and unmoving. A statue, crystallized in place.

“I’ll be fine, Potter,” Malfoy said, whipping around and holding out his hand to Harry. “Let’s just get this over with, shall we.”

“Yes, alright.”

Harry accepted Malfoy’s hand. It was cold to the touch.

Malfoy lacked callouses, an edge and a roughness to his palm. He was a blank canvas, made up of only those thin, little creases that tracked across his hand. There was a familiarity to Malfoy that Harry had never noticed. Perhaps if he hadn’t rejected Malfoy’s proposal on day one Harry would’ve noticed earlier. The sameness, the saneness, the instant serenity.

Harry resisted shuddering. His own hand felt as though it were on fire. 

If someone asked him, on the first day of Hogwarts, where Harry saw himself in seven years, he would never have answered: holding Draco’s Malfoy’s hand.

The very thought was bizarre and yet. Here he was. Doing just that.

“You’re very warm,” Malfoy noted with a clipped tone. 

“You’re the exact opposite.”

Malfoy wet his lips subconsciously and nodded. They remained, standing there, hand in hand, lost in the touch of one another. It was weird, very weird, to have gone so long having an enemy, that a touch that should feel volatile instead felt tender.

“Okay, we should both be picturing the same thing when we walk in front of the wall,” Malfoy said, breaking away from his thoughts, whatever they were.

Harry took a step forward to stand directly side-by-side with Malfoy.

“How about how it looked before,” Harry suggested. “Except, now with the intent of locating everyone’s personal items.”

Malfoy nodded, swallowing harshly. His Adam’s apple bobbed nervously in his throat, and Harry eyed him with an unfamiliar look strewn across his face. He was tuned into Malfoy’s every movement. It was difficult not to be.

They stepped closer to the brick wall in unison, striding across its threshold three times, hand in hand. It was an odd sight and Harry was half relieved that neither Ron and Hermione were there to watch. All it would do was offer up more questions to which Harry had no answers for. 

As they walked, Harry pictured the Room of Requirement. Post-Dumbledore’s Army, Pre-Fiendfyre. The room where Ginny hid the Half-Blood Prince’s potions book, where she’d kissed him, surrounded by teetering stacks of old tomes.

He pictured the ancient bronzes and cracked ivory cases, chipped cauldrons, and congealed potions sealed in dusty bottles, rusting swords on display, and scattered suits of dented armor. Damaged furniture stretching endlessly skyward: chairs, couches, cabinets, stacked atop one another, tall enough to reach the ceiling and then some. Torn hats, battered cloaks hooked on tarnished coat racks, smashed jewelry, bent metal cages for owls who’d long since died, head busts tipped over and cracked open.

Harry painted what he remembered from the Room of Requirement— cramped, familiar, a hideaway for all of those who desperately needed it.

Completely devoured in the moment, in all the memories, those painful and those pleasant, Harry almost couldn’t hear Malfoy calling out to him. His deep voice cracking, joyous and overcome with emotion.

“Oh, my  _ Salazar! _ ” Malfoy cried, throwing his arms around Harry, hands grasping at the material of Harry’s cloak. “It worked! It bloody worked!”

Harry stopped thinking. Reality came back to him in one giant, crushing wave.

Malfoy was hugging him. And he wasn’t distraught about it. In fact, Harry, too, was overcome. His eyes burned.  _ It had worked. _

The large oak doors that opened to the Room of Requirement formed in front of them. 

Harry smiled, his face cracking, and hugged Malfoy back like there was no tomorrow. It was over. They could go in. They would find what they’d spent ages looking for— everyone’s personal effects: Harry’s map, Malfoy’s journal, Neville’s Herbology gifts, Dean’s football cleats. 

It would be all done. Finished. Concluded. Resolved.

Months of searching and searching had led up this exact moment. The doors, Harry thought, appearing at last, would forever be ingrained in his mind.

“Shit!” Malfoy said, pulling away. “Harry, we’ve got to go in before it shuts on us.”

Harry froze. Malfoy seemed to realize his mistake, too, because he straightened upright, composing himself, and turned away from Harry briskly.

“Come on, Potter,” Malfoy said, his voice aloof and distant. “We can’t stand around all day.”

“Of course, yeah, you’re right,” Harry blurted. 

He couldn’t control himself. This whole evening had been a series of odd, tumultuous events, crashing against one another like thrashing ocean waves.

Malfoy stalked toward the doors and wrenched them open. 

A brightness spilled forth upon the floor in front of his feet. Malfoy jumped back into Harry, fearful of sudden remnants left over from the Fiendfyre. They’d hadn’t taken into account the possibility of traces of the curse being left behind.

However, it wasn’t fire. Just a light streaming from the wide windows that lacked the presence of thick, draping curtains. 

It was daytime in the Room of Requirement. Another sign that the room had changed in their absence. Everything before had been dim, depleted, and dusty.

_ It would never be the same again _ , Harry thought. 

There were some things that had changed forever following the events of the war. This was only one example. Harry and Malfoy’s irregular relationship was another, he considered instinctively.

“Merlin’s  _ fucking _ beard,” Malfoy swore. His hand had wrestled itself into the material of Harry’s cloak, pulling Harry closer to him.

“Godric, I nearly thought—” Harry gaped. 

“Me, too.”

Malfoy pushed away from Harry and stepped through the doors. Harry followed quickly after, the doors shutting behind them with a loud, sturdy clunk.

It was almost exactly how Harry had envisioned it. Corked vials were tipped against a dusty stack of old school books, various portraits sported long tears (vaguely reminding Harry of the time Sirius had slashed through the Fat Lady’s portrait) and some faces had even been rubbed away. Various types of metalware glinted in their velvet trays, cauldrons were flipped upside down, and shredded armchairs littered the room. 

They were all small pieces that made the Room of Requirement what it was. A place for search and discovery, hiding and escaping. 

Although, there remained gaps. Some spaces about the room lacked anything at all. There were no more ugly warlock head busts or scratchy turntables or chipped Wizard Chess sets.

Pieces were evidently still missing. Something in Harry’s mind made him think that the room would never be fully whole again. It shattered his heart to think so.

He had such memories of this place. Good ones. Bad ones. They were all a part of him and he was reluctant to part with them.

“Where do we look?” Malfoy asked as he kicked at a disfigured, vaguely golden trophy that looked like it dated back to the seventeenth-century. At least some things had remained the same.

Harry glanced around. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed something that seemed…  _ new _ . A chest engraved with modern designs. Runes.

There was a silver lock on the front. Bright and gleaming, as though some had just been by to polish it. 

“I think we start with that.”

He pointed to the chest. Malfoy noticed it, rushing over and fiddling impatiently with the lock. It was sealed shut.

Malfoy pulled out his wand. “ _ Alohomora _ .”

The lock clicked and Malfoy ripped it off the chest with greedy hands. He cast it aside, clattering as it struck an old book and rebounded.

“Wait,” Harry interrupted.

Malfoy paused. “ _ What, Potter? _ ”

“It was locked,” Harry said. “It is really wise to open it? What if it’s not what we’re looking for?”

“Well, we’ll never know if I  _ don’t _ open it, will we?” Malfoy scoffed.

Harry sighed. “Fine. Go ahead.”

“You’re an absolute wanker, you know that, Potter, you’re always—”

His voice was cut off by an awful howl. It erupted throughout the entire room, echoing off the walls. 

Malfoy stumbled, scrabbling backward to get away from the chest, which was open and gaping. A huge black whole filled the space, vacant and horrifying.

In front of the chest stood Lucius and Narcissa Malfoy. Tall, proud, arms crossed, noses raised to the Heavens.  _ A boggart _ , Harry recognized. 

Pure terror was painted across Malfoy’s face. He scurried backward, grappling at useless junk, trying to pull himself up and off his knees. He’d dropped his wand. It lay at the feet of his parents.

“Draco, darling, what is this?” Narcissa crowed, her voice ice cold. “Stand up, dear, you are embarrassing us. Leaving your wand laying about? We didn’t raise you to be this way.”

Malfoy leapt to his feet and reached his arm back, searching until he found Harry. His hand wrapped itself around Harry’s arm, holding on tight.

He was frightened. Malfoy had reverted to a little boy, terrified of the version of his parents that stood before him. Harry could tell he was near tears, desperately trying to cling onto his pride and failing. 

“I’m sorry, mother,” he choked out. His head was tilted downward, eyes trained on the scuffed floor.

“Look up, son,” Lucius demanded. “If you are to represent the Malfoy title you can not wear it while you’re staring at the shoes of others.”

“Yes, sir.”

Malfoy straightened. He fixed his eyes to his parents. Narcissa smiled back gratefully, but Lucius merely scorned.

“Why, Draco, are you clinging to that  _ boy’s _ arm?” Lucius tutted. “Remember what I told you about such trivialities.”

“That they are not to be indulged in.” Yet, Malfoy gripped Harry tighter until all the blood in Harry’s arm nearly stopped flowing.

Harry was getting fed up with this. He could no longer watch Lucius and Narcissa berate their son the way they were. Perhaps, long ago, this would’ve been something Harry ached to watch. But now, it felt too personal. Something Harry never should have seen.

He withdrew his wand from his back pocket ( _ apologies, Mad-Eye _ ) and thrust it into Malfoy’s hand. 

“It’s just a boggart,” Harry whispered into Malfoy’s ear. “It can’t hurt you. It’s not real, you know that. Just shout  _ Riddikulus _ , remember? They will vanish.”

One hand still gripping at Harry’s arm, Malfoy took the wand and aimed it at his parents. He hesitated, the same as he had when he’d confronted Dumbledore. Yet now he stood there, arm shaking, deciding whether or not Harry was telling the truth. That this was just a figment of his imagination. His deepest, darkest fear.

“What are you doing, darling?” Narcissa cooed. “Don’t point that wand at us. We’re your parents, child.” The intonation of her words set Malfoy off. He  _ knew _ that wasn’t his mother.  _ He knew. _

“ _ Riddikulus! _ ” he shouted, his voice ripe with anger. 

The image of Lucius and Narcissa dissolved, a whip-cracking noise echoed throughout the room, until they became child-like versions of themselves. A young Lucius pranced around a young Narcissa, who sported ridiculous Shirley Temple curls.

Malfoy’s grip on Harry loosened. Harry’s wand fell from his hand and clattered to the floor, recovered by Harry’s own. 

“Laugh,” Harry said.

Scrounging up meek courage, Malfoy started to chuckle weakly. Harry joined him

The boggart slowly de-materialized. Their laughter ceased and Malfoy, body limp, dropped to his knees.

“Fuck,” Malfoy choked out. “I guess that wasn’t where everything was.”

“No, actually, I think they are there,” Harry said seriously. “The chest, it’s obviously new to this room, which means the boggart was probably new, too. Like an added defense.”

Malfoy merely grunted. He had rooted himself to the floor.

Harry headed past him toward the chest, which still hung open. The gaping black hole had disappeared. It seemed that the boggart had indeed been banished elsewhere.

“So your greatest fear is your parents, huh?”

“Fuck off,” Malfoy hissed. “I am not afraid of my fucking parents, Potter.”

“Whatever you say, Malfoy.”

Harry peered into the chest with caution. He leaned over, looking inside, his wand at the ready. His gaze was greeted with a treasure trove of tokens. Rings and bracelets and an odd assortment of books. Harry could see the Marauder’s Map tucked beneath a wooden toy.

“Holy shit,” Harry whispered.

“What?” Malfoy whispered back, his voice cracking. “What is it?”

“It’s everything we’ve been looking for.”

Malfoy scrambled to his feet and hurried to Harry’s side. Together, they leaned over the chest, looking down on the assortment of items below.

“Godric, we need to find a way to get this all back to the common room,” Harry said. His fingers grasped at the smooth wood of the chest, stabilizing himself.

Malfoy shifted awkwardly on his feet. “Is that really wise?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked. “Everything’s free for the taking.”

“Exactly,” Malfoy said. “First we couldn’t get into the Room of Hidden Things, then there was a fucking boggart in… in that chest. What if there’s something else? What if taking something from the room makes it deteriorate again?”

Mirroring Malfoy’s words from earlier, Harry said, “Well, we’ll never know if we don’t check.”

He dipped his hand into the chest, withdrawing a thin book from its depths. The book felt worn between his fingers, something soaked in sentiment. It was Neville’s Herbology book.

Malfoy flinched, obviously expecting something bad to occur. Nothing did.

There was no loud explosion from the rafters, no sudden apparition of dangerous magical creatures, no poisonous substance nor stinging hex. It was just a book and nothing more.

“See, Malfoy, it’s fine.”

Bracing himself, Malfoy cautiously reached into the chest and withdrew a silver bracelet. Hannah’s, Harry guessed. 

Once more, nothing happened. Malfoy’s skin didn’t turn a mottled shade of brown nor burst into white, hot flames.

Come to the sudden realization that removing items from the chest did not have any immediate ill effect on the Room of Requirement, Harry and Malfoy fought to pull out more objects from its depth. A scarf. Dean’s cleats. Rings. A pair of antique gold-framed glasses. Harry’s map.

One by one they soon removed everything from within and now sat on the floor. 

“How do we take all this back?” Harry wondered.

Thin beads of sweat trickled down Malfoy’s temples. His palms were splayed behind him, and his legs stretched out wide, pointed in Harry’s direction. He appeared like an old summer’s day painting— breathing in the silky, sweet tang from citrus trees, watching the sun glow like a fiery Snitch in the sky, and letting the stress of life pass him by, existing merely as a wispy cloud in the great sky.

“Do you have a bag?”

“No…?”

Malfoy hummed coolly. “Well, this  _ is _ the Room of Hidden Things, go fetch one from somewhere in the stacks.”

“Piss off, go find one yourself,” Harry said, sticking his tongue out at Malfoy playfully.

“Fine.”

Malfoy shoved himself to his feet, swaying as he stood. Taking one last stubborn glance at Harry, Malfoy stalked off into the towering mass of bruised boxes. His blond hair disappeared behind a splintered cabinet.

After some loud clattering and clanging, Malfoy returned with a small, beaded bag in hand. It reminded Harry immensely of Hermione’s own bag from their time on the run. He wondered if this one could run as deep.

“Know the Extension Charm?”

“It’s not too difficult,” Malfoy said. “But you would know that if you paid attention in Charms. Honestly, Potter, it’s embarrassing how long you’ve survived in this school. It’s like everything goes in one ear and out the other.”

Harry scoffed. “Show me, then.”

Malfoy, who’d since recollected his own wand, drew it from his pocket. With a quiet swish, he pointed his wand at the beaded bag.

“ _ Capacious extremis _ .”

Malfoy held the bag out to Harry. “Here. Stick your hand in.”

“I’m trusting you not to have spelled some snakes in there,” Harry said sternly.

He stretched out his hand and reached into the bag.


	12. chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I want to tell you this story without having to confess anything, I want to tell you this story without having to be in it:” — The Torn-Up Road, Richard Siken

Harry and Malfoy made their way back to the eighth year common room in silence, toting along the bag full of everyone’s items, which was safely tucked in Harry’s cloak pocket.

After they had carefully put all the objects into the bag, Malfoy had gone extremely quiet. His movements swift and unseen. Harry didn’t ask, he merely assumed Malfoy was itching to get his hands back on his own, personal journal.

The portrait to the common room swung open at the whisper of a password, allowing the two boys to enter. Ron immediately leapt off the couch, his head previously housed on Hermione’s lap, to pull Harry into conversation.

Malfoy was left behind once more.

“Harry, where’d you go off too?” Ron shot off into questions. “You’ll never believe what—”

“Slow down Ron, you’ll give Harry a headache,” Hermione moaned from the couch. Her hair was all frizz, stuck up at all angles, mangled with worry.

In retrospect, Harry probably shouldn’t have dipped from the feast without a word. If Malfoy hadn’t shown up by his side at the Black Lake, Harry thought he would’ve just let himself freeze to death. He was eternally glad he hadn’t.

“Actually, you guys won’t believe what we figured out,” Harry said.

“What? You and Malfoy?”

Harry nodded and pulled out the bag from his pocket. Hermione leaned over the couch, confusion and intrigue across her features. Ron held a bewildered glint in his eye, caught up in the idea of Harry hanging out with Malfoy.

“It was Malfoy’s idea actually, to try and open the Room of Requirement with a little combination magic,” Harry explained. “And we succeeded. We found everything.”

Ron’s eyes went wide as he nearly knocked Harry over, ripping open the bag. His face lit up, stars in the night sky, as he saw what sat inside.

“No fucking way!”

He reached in and pulled out the garishly orange Chudley Cannon pajamas he’d been pouting over for months. In all honesty, Harry hadn’t understood the fuss Ron made over them until he’d asked about them one night during one of Ron’s tirades. It had been a Christmas gift from Fred (and George) when he was younger.

_ Oh _ , Harry had thought.  _ Oh. _

“‘Mione, come look at this!” Ron exclaimed.

Hermione walked over languidly, her movements polished and poised. But her eyes were wild, matching the mane of her hair, bewitched and brilliant.

“Godric’s sake, you’re really not lying,” she gaped. “Oh, Harry, that’s amazing. And you, too, Malfoy.”

Malfoy had since shuffled into a shadowy corner, face slack and unemotional. He bore a look depicting intrusion. A look that read, ‘ _ I don’t belong here, in this moment. I never will. _ ’ It was a familiar look to see on Malfoy, truth be told, thought Harry.

“We need to go get everyone.” Hermione’s words tumbled over one another as she rushed to speak. “Oh, Godric, it’s so late, but… Never-mind, that doesn’t matter. This has been months in the making.”

Ron and Hermione darted off to knock on the dormitory rooms, leaving Harry and Malfoy to ruminate in the leftover silence.

Overhead, the clock ticked loudly. The fire roared, tickling the fuzz on Harry’s ears. All around the world, everything was shaking with sound. Everything except the thin line of space resting between the two boys.

“I’m going to grab my book,” Malfoy told Harry matter-of-factly.

“Okay.”

Malfoy came sliding over from the shadows and Harry held the bag out for him. A long, pale arm dipped into the pouch, pulling out a sleek black journal. It was crisp and engraved on the corner was a fancy gold  _ D.M. _

He stared Harry in the eye the whole time. 

“Potter,” Malfoy said with a nod. 

“Malfoy.”

The Slytherin walked off toward the dorm room as Ron came bounding back with Michael, Terry, Neville, Dean, and Seamus in tow.

Saying ‘ _ Malfoy _ ’ like that had felt like the finale to something. Harry, with every fiber of his being, desperately hoped it wasn’t. He was getting too used to Malfoy’s company to let him go.

Yet, it was Malfoy who walked off. Harry supposed he was glad to finally rid himself of Harry’s presence. He’d gotten his little book — no,  _ journal _ — back. There was nothing more he needed from Harry.

Even so, Harry would’ve chased after Malfoy then, but he’d been immediately surrounded once more by his friends. He forced a grin to rise on his lips and toted the bag to the table in front of the couch, dumping the contents carefully onto its surface.

“This is bloody brilliant, mate,” Ron said, clapping Harry on the back.

“Thanks,” Harry mustered.

He could do this for Ron. For his friends. For the people had cared about for years: Hermione, Neville, Ginny, Luna, everyone else.

Still, however, Malfoy lingered at the back of his mind.

Neville propositioned him before he could think another thought. “Harry, how in Merlin’s name did you get into the room?”

Harry answered in detail. Following the explanation, he was bombarded with dozens upon dozens of questions. Everyone was patient, gathering back their belongings, listening attentively.

He could discuss this with Ron and Hermione, truly, but doing it all now, under the gaze of the entire eighth year class, Harry just couldn’t.

“I’m really tired, guys,” Harry pulled an excuse from thin air. “Just… if you have any more questions, you can ask me tomorrow. I’m going to get ready for bed.”

Some of the girls pouted, sour-faced, but otherwise understanding. It was, indeed, quite late.

Ron patted Harry once more on the shoulder, a closed mouth smile conveying nothing but worry. He knows. He must. Why else would Harry dismiss himself from all of  _ this _ , all of this attention, but to check up on Malfoy, the only person that wasn’t here.

“That’s alright, Harry,” Hermione said lightly. “You must be utterly exhausted.”

She began to shoo away the other students, batting her hands wildly at them. They scrambled up from their seats, collecting their belongings, and shuffling away.

Harry gave Hermione a half-awkward, but grateful smile. She returned it generously.

“Thanks, ‘Mione.”

“Don’t mention it.”

Ron walked Harry to his dormitory door, arm still slung around his shoulders. He kicked open the door with his shoe, pushing Harry inside. 

“Night, ‘Arry,” Ron yawned. “Don’t let the Nifflers bite.” 

“Goodnight, Ron.”

The first thing that Harry noticed as he entered the room was that Malfoy was  _ not _ in bed under his own covers. In fact, the bed was untouched. Not a blanket wrinkled nor pillow ruffled. 

Harry frowned to himself. Perhaps Malfoy was still getting dressed in the bathroom.

He let himself believe that, dropping the beaded bag, now empty except for his map, which rested at the bottom, into his trunk. Harry grappled for his pajamas and made his way to the bathroom. 

It would be fine. Malfoy would be here and Harry could check up on him. Convince him that, ‘ _ Yes, you do belong here, in this moment. Always. _ ’

The tiles of the bathroom floor were wet with moisture. A soft tap-tap-tapping filled the bathroom as Harry noticed water dripping steadily from a sink faucet.

There was no one else in the bathroom except for Harry, who stood limp, with a towel and a set of pajamas slung over his arm. Somehow, among all the commotion surrounding the return of all the missing objects, Malfoy had slipped out of the eighth year common room altogether.

A rather uncommon feeling of dejection overcame him. It was a loose, untethered response to the sudden abandonment. The disappearance of a person whom he never thought  _ could _ leave his life— even after all those years of repetitive hatred and malcontent.

Harry stripped and stepped uncomfortably into the shower provided for the two boy’s to share.

The water splattered across his back in a hot spray of droplets. He let it drizzle through his hair and down his face like loud, mocking tears.

It was undoubtedly the act of witchcraft, the thought that Malfoy could have such an effect on Harry. They’d been at odds for so long, why now did Malfoy suddenly walking away make Harry feel so incredibly conflicted with himself?

Somehow, Harry knew he wouldn’t get any sleep that night without talking to Malfoy. Even just one time before… before Malfoy decided to inexplicably turn back to ridicule and taunts and jeers.

Yes, that’s what Harry would do.

He had never expected himself to get so attached, but it sort of made sense in the end. Moving on from Malfoy had never felt like something that would happen.

Enemies to…  _ something _ . There was a thread interconnected between them, Harry had decided, that couldn’t keep them away from each other. Maybe Malfoy wanted that shifting and uncertain thing — to stay apart — but Harry was forever drawn to what was dangerous for him. Hunting murderous megalomaniacs, straddling the fine line between behaving or pissing Uncle Vernon off, barely escaping the jaws of a spiky Hungarian Horntail, and now, the most dangerous challenge of them all, befriending the one person he’d rejected the hand of all those long years ago.

Stepping out from the shower, dressing, resolving all of his tangled thoughts he knew would cold rushing back the minute he went to confront Malfoy, felt so terribly tiresome. Someday, Harry would just lie down and finally experience the peace and tranquility he’d been promised by all his mentors in his younger years. Just a taste of it now would give him the satisfaction of salvation.

Harry brought out his map from the beaded bag, fingers trembling as he folded open the parchment. It was the same. The Room of Requirement soaking in its fervid, trickling magic, hadn’t drained the map of its originality, shape, or function.

“I solemnly swear that I am up to no good,” Harry whispered. He pressed the tip of his wand lightly on the crinkling pages.

Inky black lines flowed across the parchment, establishing the walls of Hogwarts and carving out its corridors. Footprints danced about the different common rooms, names curling beneath them in steady, dark letters.

Scanning the map carefully, Harry found Malfoy’s name floating, neat and small, in the Astronomy Tower. 

It was a form of punishment, Harry knew now. The place that had kicked off Malfoy’s uneasy descent into the Death Eater ranks. The place where he’d almost uttered the Killing Curse, but couldn’t.

Harry grabbed his winter cloak from where it hung off his four-poster bed, slinging it over his shoulders and knotting it tight. He tucked the Marauders map into one of the cloak pockets and quietly left the common room.

The corridors were stuck in a still silence that slunk throughout each of the floors. Harry could hear the muffled click of his slippers as he walked, though tonight they were alarmingly deafening.

When Harry finally made it to the stairs leading up to the Astronomy Tower, he paused. And there he stood, conflicted between understanding that he was, in fact, chasing after Malfoy, and what to say when he saw him.

_ Well _ , Harry thought to himself,  _ there would be no chance for closure or compromise if he didn’t go up there _ .

He needed to know, fully and honestly, if Malfoy wanted atonement. If he wanted to be forgiven for his past. If he wanted to be seen as more than just a bigoted ex-Death Eater. 

There was no time for Harry to second guess himself. He ascended.

Harry’s cloak flapped in the icy breeze that traveled unceremoniously through the Tower. Candles hooked on the walls flickered ominously as Harry stepped onto the platform. 

Malfoy was huddled in a well-lit corner, bent over his book. Journal.  _ Bollocks _ , Harry would never know what to call it.

Restraining a smile, Harry said, “Are you going to say you hate me this time?”

Malfoy looked up with a startled expression, his cheeks tear-stained. He snapped the book in his hands shut, his eyes wide, wet, and so, so incredibly vulnerable.

“No,” Malfoy replied, his voice cracking. “When I said that… that was a lie.”

“What is that, by the way? I’ve been meaning to ask.” Harry indicated to the book. It looked so large in Malfoy’s shaky hands.

Malfoy simply stared at Harry, then turned to the book, then back to Harry. This was a cliche, Harry thought to himself. Life was never meant to comfortably carry cliches onto the next act.

“Er, it was a gift. From my father,” Malfoy said. He moved a pale hand up to brush away the wet splotches on his face.

“So it is a book?” Harry pried. “Or it isn’t?”

“One could say it’s like a journal.”

Harry gradually made his way over to Malfoy, taking a somber seat beside him. He did what Ron would have done for him and placed a gentle hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, squeezing him softly. He was very aware of his every movement.

Malfoy didn’t flinch away nor shove at him, and for that, Harry was quite grateful. So, he left his hand there, letting it linger comfortably.

“I got it for Christmas during fifth year,” Malfoy explained quietly. “I didn’t really start using it until the summer. It’s got… years of memories stored in its pages. Every time I felt sad or angry I wrote something down. I don’t think I was ever happy that year.”

“Have you been happy since?”

“I’m not  _ not _ happy.”

“Why were you crying?”

“Please don’t ask questions like that.”

“Why not?”

“It’s embarrassing,” Malfoy said. “I don’t like to cry in front of other people. It’s even worse if it’s in front of  _ you _ .”

“Me?”

“Yes, Potter. Now shut up, please.”

Harry pulled his hand away from Malfoy’s shoulder. Another incredible loss.

“If…” Harry started and scrapped his question. “Boggarts transform into your worst fear. Are you… Do your parents scare you?”

“No,” Malfoy answered plainly and to make things worse, he continued: “Their rejection does.”

He heard Malfoy sniffle, trying to conceal it, but failing miserably. Harry had seen Malfoy cry before, but that had been before the whole Sectumsempra incident. Harry lived with it every day, as did Malfoy. 

Malfoy’s blood, ruby red, had spread out like flames around his body, coating the bathroom floor and trickling down the drain, leaving him faint and dying. 

Harry remembered imagining an Angel of Death looming over the room with wide, black wings. It was something Aunt Petunia had always threatened him about. There would never be an Angel coming to save him, she would say. He wasn’t ever worthy of their divinity.

Would the Angel of Death have accepted Malfoy? Would he have been worthy of their divinity?

Thinking about it now,  _ yes, very much so _ , Harry could answer clearly.

“Can I see the book?”

Without a word, Malfoy handed it over like it was nothing. As if all his thoughts and secrets from previous years didn’t rest between its pages. Words written with angry hands. With sad hands. 

He was trusting Harry with his very soul.

Harry opened it carefully, as if it might cut him. Magical diaries worked in mysterious and awfully dangerous ways. He’d experienced it one too many times before.

His fingers traced the looping letters as he skimmed its contents. Harry discovered sadly, that even when Malfoy wrote about death (Malfoy’s own in particular and how he feared it, how he longed for it, how he willed for it to come sooner) the words were always beautiful.

Beauty is death. It’s terror; the divinity of life squashed out. Beauty is sad, it always will be. No poet writes about beauty without discussing death alongside it.

Harry wondered if Malfoy ever dabbled in poetry. Perhaps he would someday. He had the knack for fancy prose and the mentality of a great, old cynic.

He was debating this as he turned to the next page and found his name was the very first word. And the second. And the third.

Malfoy seemed to notice this and yanked back the book, shielding it from Harry’s eyes.

“I’m sorry, I forgot about that page,” Malfoy said stiffly. “I can’t let you read it.”

“Why not?”

“It wasn’t written for anyone but me.”

“Isn’t that the point of the whole ‘diary’ thing?”

“Call it a journal, Potter. It sounds so maudlin otherwise.”

“Okay, fine. Why did you let me read it?”

“I let you flip through it.”

“You let me  _ read _ it, Malfoy. Don’t get coy.”

“I am not getting coy, Potter.”

“Fine, then answer the question. Why did you let me ‘ _ flip _ ’ through it?”

Malfoy sighed, running another hand over his cheek to wipe away drying tears. He shuffled closer to Harry and, without question, laid his head down on Harry’s thigh.

“My mother used to let me sit with her like this whenever I was sad,” Malfoy said. “She would stroke my hair and tell me stories. Potter, I… I don’t want you to laugh at me.”

“I won’t.”

“I wrote about you a lot.”

“About how much you despised me and wanted me dead?”

“Don’t make jokes, Potter, it doesn’t suit you,” Malfoy said seriously. “And no. As a matter of fact, I’ve never wanted you dead.”

“Then what? What did you write about me?”

Malfoy grunted. “Slow down and let me finish, will you?”

Harry nodded. He began to stroke Malfoy’s hair, just as Malfoy mentioned Narcissa did. It wasn’t odd, though it did feel foreign and uncontrolled. Harry never really had much control over his life anyways, but doing this… it was more intimate than anything he could grasp.

There were so many kinds of love: familial, romantic, sexual. Harry couldn’t attribute the word ‘love’ to Malfoy, but something was… it was sprouting rapidly, stretching so high into the night sky that Harry couldn’t pull it down and stop it from growing.

“That page… I don’t know, I was always so jealous of you, Potter,” Malfoy said. His eyes were closed, his mind far off in a distant land. “You had everything I wanted. Everything I desired. Fame. Friends. Glory. Merlin, I was so desperate, I thought. I wanted so much to be your friend and then you went and rejected me for that Weasel. All I got from you was your hate. It wasn’t fair.”

“But you have to admit, it was sort of your fault?”

“What was?” 

Harry frowned. “You walked straight up to me and Ron that day and the first thing you did was insult him. He was the first person who was ever truly kind to me, you know. Who actually  _ wanted _ to be my friend and you  _ insulted _ him. So you’ll have to forgive me if I wasn’t very eager to befriend you.”

“Oh.”

“Anyways, continue.”

Malfoy paused, mulling over his next words. “Imagine this, Potter. A terribly lonely sixteen-year-old struggling with a thousand horrible tasks and no way to escape them. Of course I wrote about you. I mean, you were suspicious of me at the time, that was rather obvious. But a part of you searching for me all the time made me feel sane. A part of me hoped you would find me and put a stop to it all. You almost did.”

_ Sectumsempra _ . Harry found himself without breath, absolutely petrified. Though, he didn’t stop carding his fingers through Malfoy’s hair, which evidently  _ was _ just as incredibly thin and weak as Harry had pictured it. 

“I never apologized for that, did I?”

“Well, don’t start now.”

Harry ran his tongue over his bottom lip. “Did it scar?”

“Mhmm,” Malfoy hummed.

“I’m sorry.”

“I told you not to say that, Potter.”

“I couldn’t help it.”

And then Malfoy let out a horribly loud sob into Harry’s pajama bottoms. His hand gripped Harry’s knee and stayed there. Unsure of how to react properly, Harry just rubbed Malfoy’s back lightly.

The book glistened at Malfoy’s feet. Harry yearned to reach out and touch it. Turn to the page himself and read what Malfoy had written about him. See how the words curved and curled, latching onto one another in neat cursive.

“I don’t want to be like this,” Malfoy sobbed. “Always hating myself for everything I could have prevented. Realizing too late. Realizing how much better everything could have been if I had  _ tried _ .”

“It’s okay, you can try and be better  _ now _ ,” Harry said.

“But it’ll never be enough,” Malfoy said. “You and Luna are the only ones who have even tried to… to give a shit about me. I fucked up all on my own, as you said. I did this. I did this and I’m too proud to give a shit about apologizing.”

“But you have apologized.”

“Not to everyone. Not to the people who deserve it.”

“That’s true, but you’re on your way there,” Harry said. “You’re so fucking stubborn, but you’ll get over it. At least saying sorry is a step in the right direction.”

Malfoy nodded along into Harry’s thigh. His hand loosened its grip on Harry’s knee and went limp.

“Father would laugh at me now. Everyone would.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I’m crying into the lap of my enemy.”

Harry laughed.

Not at Malfoy, per se, but at the irony of his statement. It was true. Not even Professor Trelawney could have predicted such a sight.

Malfoy shot up off of Harry’s lap.

“See, even you’re laughing,” he pouted.

“You should start calling me Harry?”

“What? Why?” 

“I think we’re far past the point of calling each other our enemies.”


	13. chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Louis, I think this is the beginning of a beautiful friendship.” — Casablanca (1942)

“Harry, I need to talk to you about something serious.”

“Yes, Ron, what is it?”

The two Gryffindor boys were seated in the Library, not studying, however, as Hermione would like them to be, but instead, devouring little tea cakes that they’d nicked from the Kitchens earlier that morning.

It was a sunny winter’s day outside. Light streamed in from the giant, cathedral-like windows and spread out across the tables, desks, and copious bookshelves. The weather had a mystical undertone.

Harry felt incredibly light and airy today. Hopeful, almost.

“I don’t understand what you’ve got going on with Malfoy,” Ron said seriously. “You’ve hated him for years and he’s hated you right back. Now suddenly it’s like you’ve replaced me with him.”

“I could never replace you, Ron, you know that.”

“I know, but it’s just… I don’t understand this weird friendship you’ve kicked off with him. It doesn’t make sense to me.”

Harry regarded Ron’s words as the red-head shoved a whole tea cake into his mouth, crumbs spraying everywhere onto the table. Madam Pince would have his head if she saw him. Hermione would, too.

Ron was right in a way, however. 

There had been no further apologies from Malfoy, no taking ownership for his actions in the past. To be honest, at this point, Harry was hoping that Malfoy was merely working up the courage to move his ass and finally take responsibility.

If not, Harry would simply have to intervene. Again.

It was ruinous, this odd tryst that Harry was having with Malfoy. They couldn’t really decide whether they were friends, yet, or just two people who talk to each other often.

Malfoy had rejected Harry’s request to call him by his first name (though Harry hadn’t been able to call Malfoy ‘Draco’ yet either), which had lowered Harry’s mood considerably regarding the topic. 

“I think he’s struggling,” Harry said earnestly. “And I honestly understand that people don’t want to give him a chance because of it. Because they think he deserves to struggle—”

“—A part of him  _ should _ struggle.”

Harry frowned. “Yes, but… I know he regrets a lot of the things he’s said to you and Hermione. Even if he refuses to mention it. And he’d kill me for telling you this, but everything he did… he was just jealous and cruel. He’s since realized his mistakes and he’s trying to find room to forgive himself first.”

“I think you’re letting him off easy, mate.”

“Maybe I am,” Harry answered. “He’s apologized to me.”

“And that’s enough for you? For him to make you forget all the shit he’s done.”

“No, that’s not… no.”

“Harry, he’s a dangerous person,” Ron said.

He’d since abandoned the tea cakes. The remaining two sat on the little blue plate, untouched and dejected.

“He’s not dangerous,” Harry countered. “He was a child, we all were.”

“Then he’s a coward.”

“He did what he could in the situation he was placed in.”

“Why are you so hellbent on defending him?” Ron challenged. “Did he place some… some fucking Imperius Curse on you to mess with us or some shit? I’ll kick that fucking ferrets head in for you, I swear.”

Harry sighed and set his elbows on the desk.

Perhaps Harry  _ was _ trying to convince himself of Malfoy’s remodeling. It was true that he wanted desperately for Malfoy to be what Harry imagined him as. Sarcastic yet kind-hearted, educated and understanding. A revision of the past.

It was also true that Ron could be quite overprotective sometimes. 

All the other students at Hogwarts had marked each of the so-called ‘golden trio’ with a stereotype. Harry was the savior. Hermione was the mind. Ron was the comedian. And he was, undoubtedly, always trying to break away from such a miscalculated label. Ron knew he was worth more than that and Harry did, too.

“He does not have me under a curse, Ron,” Harry rebutted. “I know you care about me, but I’m being entirely serious about him. He’s just as damaged as we are.”

“Mate, I…” Ron trailed off.

“I know it’s weird that I’m in a limbo between being friends with Malfoy and almost being friends with Malfoy, but he’s not going to kill me. Or hurt me,” Harry added.

“Say you’re right—”

“—I am.”

Ron shook his head. “When you go off and befriend him or people like him, I don’t want your next great leap to include leaving me and ‘Mione behind. You always tend to get a little… lost, Harry.”

“I promise, no matter what happens now or once we finish Hogwarts, I could never leave you two behind,” Harry said.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah, in all honesty, I think I’m just now catching up to you two,” Harry confessed. “You’ve both been running so far ahead of me and I think I’m right on your heels.”

Ron leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. Tufts of red hair fell down around his temples. He looked exhausted— misconstrued, trying desperately to understand where Harry had been left behind.

There was an oddity to his slouching posture. Like he was getting ready to accept Harry’s explanation, to understand and to cooperate. Like he knew it was something he should’ve been doing since the start.

“Is that true?”

“That I felt left behind?”

“Yeah.”

“Yeah, it’s true.”

“You should’ve said something, mate.” Ron let the chair fall forward. It struck the floor loudly, but there were no clicking heels striding through the Library to harass them with a noise complaint.

“Maybe,” Harry said. “But I also wasn’t trying to hold you guys back.”

“That’s impossible.”

“Huh?”

“If what you said is true, it’s impossible to tear us all apart,” Ron explained. “There’s no one in the world that’s faced the same shit we have. That’s gotta mean something. And personally, I think it means we’re more connected than anyone else could ever be.”

“Connected? As if we’re some kind of puzzle?”

“Sure,” Ron said seriously. “Experiences build character. Impact relationships. Hermione was telling me about that one night, I think. See, I don’t think you  _ could _ get left behind even if you tried.”

“Even if I’m out here befriending the enemy?”

“Your words not mine.”

Ron reached for one of the remaining tea cakes, but Harry pulled the plate away. A look of betrayal chanced Ron’s freckled face.

“I know it’s hard to like him,” Harry said edgily. “Or even start to give a shit about him.”

“No kidding, mate.”

“But he’d just be the same piece of shit if no one  _ had _ intervened,” Harry continued. “I think he needs a good influence and I am one. Well, I hope I am one. And it’s just… maybe if someone had actually cared about him before, like his well being rather than just his blood status, ‘cause all that is pure bullshit, then maybe he would’ve been better.”

Ron’s lips lifted slightly. “You dream a lot.

“That’s a good thing, though, right?”

“It can be.”

“Can?”

“It’s Malfoy,” Ron clarified. “I just… I hope you know what you’re getting into. It’s not just us that he’s hurt. It’s a lot of people. And they’re not all just going to sit idle.”

“I know,” Harry agreed, turning his eyes downcast.

“You’ll be fine,” Ron said. “You’ll do what you think is right. That’s you. It’s impossible to hold back what you feel, I get it.”

“Thanks, mate.”

“What for?”

“For being my brother.”

***

That evening, the world closed fervently around Harry as he sat tucked up in bed. The feast in the Great Hall had just concluded, and Harry had dismissed himself from the common room activities out of boredom.

It was always the same old thing day after day. Hermione with her head in a book or a quill in her hand. Ron playing Wizards Chess or napping, feet on Hermione’s lap. A wild, rowdy game of Exploding Snap in the corner of the room with anyone who wanted to participate that night.

The repetition of it all found Harry drawn to the confines of his room.

Moonlight came gently through all three of the frosty windows, filling the dormitory with a ghostly ambiance. The furnace, which sat stoic and old in the middle of the room, pulsed with warmth like a small hearth. It was the homely-ness, the similarity to the rooms up in Gryffindor Tower, that drew Harry to the safety of his four-poster bed.

Tonight, however, he was pouring over the Marauders Map.

Its parchment between Harry’s fingers was worn and familiar. Getting it back, finding it after it had been stolen away, had lifted a huge weight from Harry’s chest. The map was one of the few things he had left that had belonged to James, Sirius as well. He didn’t know what he would have done if he wasn’t able to get it back.

The door clicked open. Harry glanced up at the intruder.

“Malfoy,” Harry greeted warmly.

“Why aren’t you up in the common room with everybody else?”

“Why aren’t you?”

Malfoy closed the door, lips unmoving. So Harry simply set the map aside. Black ink still flooding the pages, footsteps still pattering about.

Harry found his own answer. “It’s always the same old thing night after night.”

“That’s how its always been.” Malfoy’s voice was tampered with confusion.

“No,” Harry said. “Not for me. This is the first year where besides all that bullshit with the Room of Requirement, nothing feels like it’s  _ actually _ happening. Like life is still continuing, just not without meaning or purpose. Like it’s continuing because it’s all that life knows how to do.”

“Ah. Was stopping the Dark Lord not enough for you?”

Harry bit his lip. Was it that Malfoy’s words held some truth?

_ No _ , Harry decided.

Stopping Voldemort? That was all about  _ not _ dying.

Now Harry finally had the chance to just live. Though, it never felt like it was enough. He wanted more than what this castle carried.

“Godric, Malfoy, what’s so wrong with calling him Voldemort?” Harry intoned. “He’s gone. He’s dead.”

Malfoy paused, shuffling on his feet. The moonlight pooled upon his head and crowned him in a delirious, pearly light. Before there had been a ghost-like quality to the Slytherin, but as he stood here now, in front of Harry, he looked more alive than ever.

“That doesn’t stop him from still having power,” Malfoy said.

“Over you?”

“No, not over me, per se,” Malfoy refuted. “Just… he won’t ever truly go away. Yes, he’s dead, but as you know already, in the Wizarding World there’s no permanence in death.”

“You mean because of me?” Harry asked. “Because I survived death?”

Malfoy nodded. “Yes, when you were a baby and everyone thought the Dark Lord was gone. He wasn’t, there were still slivers of him left alive. My father… my father helped make sure of that.”

“Come here.” Harry ushered Malfoy over.

With hesitation in his step, Malfoy trailed across the room, sweeping past the windows and the furnace, illuminated entirely under the gaze of the moon.

“Here,” Harry said. “Sit next to me, I want to show you something.”

With a strange unsureness, Malfoy slid onto Harry’s small, twin-sized bed beside him. It wasn’t really suited for two people, but somehow there was enough room for the both of them.

Harry picked up the Marauders Map and shoved it into Malfoy’s hands without a second thought.

“This is…” Malfoy faltered.

“Hogwarts, yes.”

“This is the one your father made, yes?” Malfoy asked. “I’ve never seen anything like it.”

“No one else has either, really.”

“What?”

“Well, it’s obviously one of a kind,” Harry said. “The only other people who know about it are Ron and Hermione.”

“This is… this is amazing,” Malfoy whispered in awe.

“It comes in handy.”

“Ever use it to spy on someone? Professors? Dumbledore?” Malfoy asked curiously. “That’s what I would use it for. It would’ve helped me a lot, too.”

Harry laughed. It was an ironic question, tainted with too many specific memories.

Though, the truth couldn’t hurt now. Harry was being lenient. If he was trying to be friendly with Malfoy all of a sudden, the Slytherin deserved to know.

“Hmm, every now and then,” Harry answered. “I think you’ll be quite interested to know this map is how I always knew where you were during sixth year. Well, almost always, anyway.”

Malfoy, destroying Harry’s personal biases piece by piece, did not react the way Harry presumed he would.

In another time, Malfoy would have berated him, hexed him into another dimension, or summoned his father on him. Instead, he smiled fondly, as if everything Harry did was natural. As if everything Harry did was grand.

“Almost always?”

“The Room of Requirement doesn’t show up on the map,” Harry explained. “I figured it all out sometime later, when all was said and done. In all honesty, I thought you were leaving the school somehow.”

“I wish that were true,” Malfoy mumbled.

As if it were second nature, Harry set a comforting hand upon Malfoy’s knee, which rested a little too close to Harry’s own. If he nudged his leg only a fraction, they would be touching. 

It took everything in Harry’s body to resist doing just that.

“You’re not upset?” Harry asked. “I practically stalked you.”

“Not practically, Potter, you  _ definitely _ stalked me,” Malfoy said, eyes taking to the ceiling. “But, er, sixth year wasn’t a good time for me and I’m… I’m sort of… glad that you kept an eye on me, really. Even if it was under the suspicion that I was up to no good. Which I was, you were right.”

“No shit.”

“You always knew too much for your own good. It amazed me,” Malfoy said seriously. “It still amazes me.”

It amazed Harry, too. His innate stubborn and spontaneous nature. All of it, coiled up in Harry, and flowed through him like water through a pipe, molding him into who he was.

There was a dangerous quality to it all. Harry himself didn’t fully understand the way he functioned. Like there was always more moving to be done.

His life never seemed to  _ stop _ moving. From the day he was born to his parent’s death, to life with his Aunt and Uncle, followed in short by constantly being hunted by Voldemort for seven years.

Maybe Harry just wanted everything to finally calm down. It helped that the long-lasting hatred between him and Malfoy had dissipated drastically. 

Malfoy used to wind Harry up until he was practically red in the face, but now all he did was make Harry yearn for the growing calmness that existed between them even more. He made Harry feel like he truly was the unstoppable force that everyone had told him he was. 

It made him feel weird all over. This was wrong, right?

“Are you going soft on me now, Malfoy?”

“Oh, shut it, Potter,” Malfoy said stiffly. “Can’t I just say what I feel for once without getting bullied about it?”

“You’re one to talk.”

“Yes, I know.”

Malfoy’s face dropped, something churning deep within his eyes. 

“I do have regrets,” Malfoy said. “I don’t enjoy them and I can’t continue to push them away. Trying to make up for it is difficult when no one wants me to do anything nowadays.”

Harry looked sadly at Malfoy. His hand was still resting on Malfoy’s knee. Like it belonged there. Like the feeling wouldn’t leave until long after Harry had removed his grip.

“Why won’t you call me Harry?”

“Because you won’t call me Draco.”

An aching silence closed in around them. Harry swore he could hear the unsteady heartbeat of Malfoy beside him. It was an anxious, blood-pumping sound that flooded through Harry’s ears.

“Fine then,” Harry said.

He pulled his hand from Malfoy’s knee, turning his body fully to face the other boy. 

Malfoy’s eyes, staring at Harry curiously and afraid, were alarmingly silver. They gleamed like little moons, all attention drawn directly to them. But then again, Malfoy had the appearance of something god-like, a face sculpted for praise.

He was a fine-boned boy with a gauntness to his heart-shaped face (Godric, the most perfect design for someone deemed heartless by many), but attractive nonetheless. His chin came to a soft, round point, forcing the eyes to look upward at Malfoy’s cupid-bow lips. Good lips, the ones that made you want to stare at them all day.

To kiss them, too, if you fancied. Harry… didn’t know if that’s what he wanted. His thoughts were muddled, engorged in a vat of indescribable feeling. 

Harry was in awe, however, staring so closely at Malfoy. Had he really been missing out on this face for so many years? 

This was a new development. It must be. 

Finally. “Draco.”

It was odd to say Draco. The word was new to his mouth, filling out the space, sitting squashed on his tongue. New words always felt odd and uncomfortable at first, but Harry always got used to new words in the end.

“What did you do that for?”

“Well,” Harry said, “you said you wouldn’t call me Harry because I wouldn’t call you Draco.”

“You didn’t mean it.”

“Fuck off, it’s your turn now, you git.”

Malfoy frowned. “Is this a joke?”

“It’s just our names.”

“It’s just our names,” Malfoy scoffed. “Of course that’s what  _ you _ would say.”

Harry grumbled, crossing his arms. “You’re so fucking stubborn. And pretentious. It’s literally just a fucking word with no meaning. This is why people don’t like you.”

“They don’t like me for worse reasons than that,  _ Harry _ .”

He knew it was sarcastic, but Malfoy had closed up for no reason. It meant enough for now.

“See, that wasn’t so bad.”

“Please be serious.”

Harry regarded Malfoy, his eyes washing over his — friend, enemy, pal you have heart to hearts with sometimes, but someone always fucks it up at some point? —  _ whatever _ .

“Would you stop staring at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“Merlin!” Malfoy exclaimed. “You know. You already fucking know.”

Harry didn’t know. He was craving, however, to understand.

Malfoy was always so secretive, scarce with his words and meaning. He locked up his feelings and boxed himself in. He had done everything to try and lock Harry out at first, and it had failed. It could fail again.

Harry turned away, eyes wandering across the way to the door. A loud laugh sounded from the other side. There was a whole other world out there, a whole other universe existing just beyond the slab of oak.

It was only his friends, Harry knew. But from here they felt so far away. Far enough away for this interaction with Malfoy to be dangerous. 

Though, all their actions were dangerous. This one was just more volatile than the rest.

“You make my life hell,” Malfoy said.

“Do I?”

“Yes, you do.”

“How so?”

“You’ve plagued my life ever since I was a child,” Malfoy answered. “I was constantly surrounded by magnificent stories of a little boy, my age, who had stopped the most powerful wizard of all time. Of course, being who my family was, not all of the stories I heard were good ones. And then, years later, I met you and Salazar, nothing even changed. Your existence continued to plague me. All the stories I’d heard were true. You were brave and considerate and you weren’t  _ my _ friend. That was the worst of it all. You were out there, being who were, and all I could do was torment you for it.”

Harry paused, a large sigh rifling through his body. They were still sitting so dangerously close to each other on that small bed.

“Did you know I was almost put in Slytherin?” Harry said abruptly.

“Pardon?” Malfoy’s voice was sharp, ringing loud and clear.

“It’s true,” Harry said. “It would’ve put me there, too, if I hadn’t chosen Gryffindor instead.”

Malfoy’s mouth fell open. “You complete bastard. You piece of shit! I can’t believe it. How dare you!?”

“Getting a bit flustered there,  _ Draco? _ ”

Though, it seemed that using Malfoy’s first name, again, was the final straw. He looked near tears, water welling in his eyes.

“Hey.  _ Hey _ ,” Harry said, his voice light. “Did I say something wrong?”

“You do all the time. Fuck, Pott—  _ Harry _ , piss off would you.”

Confused and disheartened, Harry moved to get up and leave, but Malfoy’s hands tugged on his shirt, pulling him back down. His grip was frantic, furious almost.

“Don’t actually leave, you pillock,” Malfoy hissed.

“ _ Godric _ , then be more clear with your words next time.”

“Fine.”

Harry huffed. “What’s up with you tonight? Are the planets not in alignment or whatever Professor Sinistra would say?”

Malfoy let out a gross laugh. “No, I don’t know what’s wrong with me tonight. Probably everything, to be honest.”

“Then let’s just… let’s just sit here and not speak,” Harry offered. “We don’t always need to speak whenever we’re in each other’s company. We’re like… friends now, silence should be enough sometimes.”

“We’re  _ friends? _ ”

“Sure,” Harry shrugged it off. “It’s whatever now.”

“Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For not being disgusted whenever you talk to me.”

The thin film that protected Harry from falling snapped. Down he went, tumbling and tumbling, creating a terrible splash. Godric, was this really how it felt? To be so saddened by the aching desperation of another person.

There was a loss in Malfoy’s tone that shouldn’t have been there. That didn’t  _ need _ to be there.

It was strange to hear, and it chilled Harry to the bone, prickling his skin as it went. Seeping into the very marrow of his skeleton. Attacking his cells with a sharp, tight pang that clenched his heart and made the pit of his stomach twinge.

_ Heartache _ .

“You need to stop feeling so sorry for yourself,” Harry said hotly. “Recognize that truly horrible people don’t confess how torn up they are about doing terrible things. You are changing. You  _ have _ changed.”

“It doesn’t feel like I have.”

“Well, you are.”

“Then why is it that you’re the only person who actually wants to hang around and talk to me?”

His mind on another planet, Harry put a tentative hand on Malfoy’s shoulder, pulling him closer. Their legs finally brushed against one another.

“People aren’t so willing to forgive,” Harry said. “It even took some time for me to see you in a… in a friendlier light. You’ve got to find it in yourself to apologize, truly apologize, and do your best to show them all the shit from your past is null.”

“Well, I think—”

“—Let’s just… sit here. My head is already aching from too much overthinking.”

Malfoy closed his mouth slowly, seeming almost desperate to get the final word. Yet, he didn’t say anything more. Instead, he sank backward into Harry’s pillow.

He appeared cool on the surface, but Harry could see the conflicted look that danced in Malfoy’s jaw. There was a tightness bolted to his face, but he was resisting any kind of rash decisions.

Hand still on Malfoy’s shoulder, Harry gave it a light squeeze.

Responding to the touch, the weight of Malfoy sank into Harry’s side. It was as though he’d never experienced this level of comfort and compassion. Though, it could be said the same for Harry.

It was only through his friends that he had ever felt truly appreciated. Not just some celebrity that every teenage girl swooned over. Or the hero that every teenage boy aspired to be. With Ron and Hermione he was just Harry. Not the Boy Who Lived or the Chosen one. Just Harry.

And now it was Malfoy’s turn to experience the warmth of kindness, something which had been sorely lacking from his life.

It hurt Harry, almost, to think about how lonely Malfoy must have been. He could imagine, from the neglected years spent with his Aunt and Uncle, what Malfoy had been struggling to survive through, too.

“I’m sorry,” Malfoy whispered, breaking the quiet that had ensconced the two boys.

Before Harry could reply, Malfoy’s head drifted steadily to rest atop the Gryffindor’s shoulder. Disregarding volatility, Harry let it happen without complaint. 

He was infatuated. What could he do?

Harry took a small breath. “Why did you get so upset when I mentioned I chose Gryffindor over Slytherin?”

“Because maybe we would’ve had another go at being friends,” Malfoy answered, sotto voce. “Maybe everything would’ve been different.”


	14. chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I think of you so often you have no idea.” — Ulysses, James Joyce

The final days of November trickled quickly by, leaving only a couple weeks until winter exams reared their ugly heads and then, Christmas. The very last of the orange and brown leaves, which had clung heartily on to tree branches throughout the icy weeks of November, fell away just as all things inevitably do.

Fields of pure white glistened on the horizon, turning the landscape of Hogwarts into a brightly lit winter wonderland. The treetops of the Forbidden Forest bore no ill-aura and due to recent snowstorms, the last of the Quidditch matches had come to an abrupt halt.

It was the start, however, to something beautiful.

Fires blazed in the grates lining the Great Hall as Harry sat scribbling on a lengthy piece of parchment at one of the four, long House tables. Both Hermione and Draco had been pressuring him to study for the upcoming exams for weeks now.

Even so, Harry kept coming up with the same old excuse to try and get out of it like he always did.  _ He still didn’t know what he wanted to do post-graduation _ .

Draco offered up the idea that he work at a little shop, like those in Diagon Alley, saying that the domesticity of it all would be a nice routine for Harry. However, Harry had shot down his suggestion almost at once. He was the Chosen One, after all. If he decided to open a shop one day, it would only attract mindless, blubbering fans.

Besides, Harry had asked Draco, what are  _ you _ going to do once we graduate?

Draco had replied, resoundingly melancholy, ‘I doubt anyone would be too eager to hire an ex-Death Eater so soon after everything.’

Harry found out later that Draco intended to live off of his family’s fortune, withering away alongside his mother back at Malfoy Manor. If no one desired his presence, that’s the gift he was willing to grant them.

Although, Harry did not understand how Draco could still stomach going back there. He knew it was all just for Narcissa, in the end. As long as she was there, Draco was there, too.

It didn’t matter anyhow because here Harry was, in the Great Hall, writing down a list of the main principles for Transfiguration. His wrist ached and his fingers were starting to go numb. Oh, how he  _ hated _ studying.

Lunch was soon, however. Students were filtering into the Great Hall, books peeking out from their bags that they’d clearly shoved in quickly so they could escape the confines of their classrooms. It reminded Harry so much of his early days at Hogwarts, although he’d been less focused on schoolwork and more focused on Voldemort at the time.

Now those days were over and here he was. Forced to focus on schoolwork.

Ron and Hermione were due at the Great Hall any minute. 

He’d been here for quite some time waiting. It had been a request of his to relieve himself from Herbology class on Wednesday before lunches. N.E.W.T. students were awarded such niceties as long as they spent the hour solely on studying.

Although, Harry had learned, from experience, when trying to find a nice alcove to hide away in and read, that many students took their free period as an opportunity to make out. The two students Harry had discovered had turned a lovely shade of beet-red before apologizing profusely and bolting away, ashamed that it was the ‘Chosen One’ who’d found them.

Harry decided in the end not to tell a Professor on them. They were young and in love— it was only natural.

And a part of Harry yearned for such naturalism every now and again. Especially when in the presence of Draco.

Although, whenever he pictured such naturalism, Ginny’s words would float into his mind to taunt him. That little, ‘ _ Sometimes I think your weird obsession with Malfoy goes beyond hate _ ’ pressing against the inside of his brain.

Perhaps it  _ was _ true. A version of the truth. Though they didn’t really hate each other anymore. That was a good thing, right?

“Harry!” Ron exclaimed loudly into his ear.

He clapped Harry heartily on the back before leaping over the table to join Hermione, who had taken a seat across from Harry. Frizzy strands of hair fell around her face, stressed and filled with multiplying worry. Ah, exam fever.

“Hey, Ron,” Harry greeted. “‘Mione.”

“Studying?” Hermine asked, eyebrows raised in suspicion. 

She knew how Harry was. Knew all the things he liked to do and all the things he didn’t. As aforementioned, studying was one of the things he disliked greatly.

It was helpful, sometimes, even though he felt like she babied him too often over his schoolwork. Hermione looked up to Professor McGonagall a little too much, Harry thought.

“There’s nothing else for me to do, is there,” Harry sighed.

He lazily dropped his quill onto the table. It struck the wood with a soft clatter, remnants of ink on the tip splattering onto his leftover Transfiguration homework.

“Is your ferret friend not joining you in pre-lunch studies?” Ron joked, although a hardness vibrating throughout his words.

“For the last time, Ron, we don’t do everything together.”

“You both bloody act like it, though.”

Hermione coughed loudly, gathering their attention away from the light bickering. “Give it a rest. Both of you. Ron, Harry _ is _ allowed to have other friends besides us.”

“That’s understandable, but  _ Malfoy _ of all people.  _ Really? _ ”

“I’m…” Harry stuttered. “We’re working it out.”

“All I’m telling is to be cautious, mate.”

As if from thin air, golden plates were summoned in front of them, derailing the conversation at hand. Sandwiches of all different kinds filled up platters and jugs of orange juice, pumpkin juice, and water sprouted up and down the long table.

Harry could see Ron’s mouth visibly water.

Hands scrambled to grab turkey, ham, and corned beef sandwiches, all traces of homework and exam studying material placed securely away in book bags. Lunch had commenced in regular, everyday Hogwarts fashion.

“I still can’t believe you let him join us for lunch,” Ron complained through a mouthful of corned beef, crumbs spraying everywhere.

“Only twice a week,” Harry shot back. “You moan about it every Wednesday.”

“And Tuesday!”

“Is he running late today?” Hermione asked before gulping down some pumpkin juice. “He’s typically here with you when we arrive.”

“His class is running late today again,” Harry answered nonchalantly. “Lots of last-minute units to go over before exams.”

Ron made a fake gagging sound. He didn’t need to say anything more for Harry to understand what he meant by it.

It was true that Harry now had an absurd amount of knowledge regarding Draco’s schedule. That fact alone perturbed Ron, who had never, in all of their years of friendship, experienced that same level of Harry’s undivided attention.

No one really had. Not even Ginny.

“Hiya, Harry!” A warm, familiar voice clouded his ears.

Speak of the Devil and she shall appear. Though, Ginny was no Devil. That was an impossible feat, even for her.

“Ginny,” Ron greeted before Harry could even speak. “Whatcha doing over here?”

“What? Can I not say hello to my brother and his friends,” Ginny mock-pouted.

Harry frowned. “Hey! We’re your friends, too.”

Ginny responded with a bright, cheeky grin as she reached out to ruffle Harry’s messy, unkempt mop of hair.

“I know that, you dingbat,” Ginny laughed. “Enjoy your sandwiches, Ronald!”

Ginny dipped away to the Ravenclaw table to join Luna, who was waving her over, cheeks rosy and eyes soft.

Every time Ginny left a room (or even just the presence of Harry and Co.) it felt like the end of an era. It made Harry feel as though he was only living life on a disk that kept repeating. Spinning and spinning and never-ending.

“They make such a cute couple,” Hermione said dreamily.

It was not normal for Hermione to find couples that were achingly in love dreamy (see: Ron and Lavender for more information), so Harry’s head nearly spun on itself.

“Who does?”

“Ginny and Luna, obviously,” Hermione said. “Who else would I be talking about?”

“They’re dating!?” Harry nearly belted, the juice he’d been previously drinking now splattered across the front of his nice, newly-cleaned, white shirt. “… _ Shit _ .”

“You didn’t know?”

“No shit I didn’t know.”

Ron laughed dryly. “Might be because you’re too wrapped up in Malfoy’s company. Which, I might add, I am  _ trying _ to get used to. You didn’t point that one out earlier.”

“I… no, that’s not possible,” Harry spluttered. “Ginny would’ve told me, right? She would’ve told me.”

“Just because you’re her ex doesn’t mean she needs to tell you everything that happens in her life, Harry,” Hermione said. 

“It’s honestly hard to miss, mate,” Ron added. “They’re all over each other these days, it’s getting kind of tiresome to watch.”

Harry stared at him blankly.

“Okay, it’s like this, mate. There are only three things I can deduce that make up your life now that old Voldy’s gone. Us, your borish schoolwork, and Malfoy.”

Ron was right and that fact alone terrified Harry. 

The last few years of his life he’d been focused so much and now… he wasn’t. Life didn’t end, it just kept going and going without permission. Harry wanted so much to force it to slow down, but he knew he would never succeed.

There were times when he wondered if he should’ve boarded that beautiful, white train back when he almost died for the second time. Though, knowing it would have meant Voldemort would win, Harry was grateful he’d been given the chance to come back.

So many others had not been granted that small mercy.

Furthermore, his growing interest in Draco had alarmed both Ron and Hermione (though it was obvious it unsettled Ron more) to some extent, but the act of it — seeking out Draco’s apology, befriending him, yearning to know more and get more from him — it felt only natural to Harry. 

If Draco hadn’t insulted Ron on day one, then perhaps Harry and Draco could have been really good friends. 

Almost as close as Harry was to Ron and Hermione. Though, that was nearly impossible, for Ron and Hermione had been with Harry through too much turmoil for anyone to ever take their spots so high up in his heart.

“I’m sorry for not spending so much time with you anymore,” Harry said. “Maybe we could start a game of Wizard’s Chess tonight, for the sake of it.”

Ron grinned widely. “That’d be nice.”

“And anyway, I’m…” Harry tried to say. “Well, I do actually have something to say that both of you will find very interesting.”

“Go on,” Hermione urged.

He would keep it brief, he thought to himself. There were things one needed to tell their best friends, but there were also some things best kept to oneself.

Splaying out his hands on the tabletop, Harry took a large breath to steady himself and find the time to collect the right words.

Cautiously, he said, “I think I might… like someone.”

“Who?” Ron asked immediately.

“Well, I’m not going to just outright say it.”

“You gotta, it’s best friend code.”

“Best friend code?”

“Yes,” Ron insisted. “If you like someone you have to tell your friends who it is or it’s null. I read it in one of Ginny’s  _ Witch Weekly _ mags.”

“I don’t think that’s right,” Hermione scoffed.

“It doesn’t matter,” Harry said. “I’m not telling you because I’m not definitive on it yet. That’s why I think ‘I think I like someone’ not ‘I like someone.’”

Ron huffed. “But don’t you think that’s boring though.”

“Boring how?”

“You obviously like them if you’re going to use a statement that contains the words ‘I,’ ‘like,’ and ‘someone’ in a context that could be defined as crushing,” Ron said.

“Oh, shut up, Ron,” Hermione interrupted. “It took you years to admit you fancied me.”

Harry grinned cheekily. “That’s true.”

“Don’t side with Harry,” Ron complained. “You know I’m right, ‘Mione. You agree that we deserve to know who it is?”

“I agree that Harry doesn’t need to tell us who he likes because that is his privacy and as his best friend, Ron, I suggest you respect his privacy,” Hermione said.

Harry puffed his chest out. “Thank you, ‘Mione.”

The bench rattled loudly as a book bag dropped onto its surface. A tired body took the empty seat beside Harry, pale hands reaching out to grab whatever sandwiches Ron had not yet eaten.

Of course Draco would take this time to show up unannounced. Harry was screwed. 

“Hello, Harry,” he said. “Weasley and Granger.”

Ron, who had never been friends with Draco nor ever wished to speak to him through any kind of banter, replied: “Malfoy, did you know that Harry likes someone and won’t tell us who she is? You know what, I bet he’s told you. Who is it?”

“I… what?” Draco croaked.

He had neglected the two dry sandwiches on his plate to stare, wild-eyed, at Ron, who stared eagerly back at him, awaiting answers. It was possibly the first time the two had been in such close proximity talking to one another without insult.

Before, all the lunches had been incredibly awkward, with only Harry and Hermione working up the courage to chat.

“Harry hasn’t told you.” Ron drew a conclusion. A smirk of success flitted across his lips. “See, ‘Mione, we’re still on top of the friendship hierarchy.”

“ _ Ronald! _ ” Hermione hissed, smacking Ron on the arm.

“No… he, no,” Draco trailed off. “He hasn’t told me anything.”

That’s because the ‘someone’ that Harry had briefly mentioned, the ‘she’ of Ron’s thoughts, was, in fact, Draco, Harry thought to himself angrily. 

How could it be anyone else? It never  _ was _ anyone else.

“I was planning on doing it at a later date,” Harry said. 

He had never planned on telling Draco at any such time. Harry supposed he could just bury the feelings, shove them down in his chest and pretended they didn’t exist.

“Oh,” was all Draco could muster.

The silence that normally ensconced other luncheons overtook the group. Draco settled on finishing the sandwiches on his plate, quietly swallowing down lukewarm pumpkin juice after every bite.

Not long after, Ron engaged Harry and Hermione in a discussion involving post-exam Christmas plans, ignoring Draco once more, as he always did. He spoke energetically about the Burrow and the get-together Mrs Weasley was getting in a fuss over, hands motioning in every direction as he spoke.

There remained a childish aspect in Ron, which had surprisingly stuck it through during the war. 

Harry had almost forgotten about it, remembering for the longest time the Ron that had followed him in the hunt for Horcruxes. The angry Ron, the scared Ron, the brave Ron.

Now he was laughing and doing his best to leave behind the hardships they face. There was too much pain in the memories. Ron deserved so much to be happy.

“So Malfoy,” Hermione said suddenly, detracting from the Christmas conversation. “Harry mentioned your class was running late. What subject?”

“Muggle Studies.”

“And you actually stayed behind instead of dipping out and coming to lunch earlier?” Ron asked with bewilderment. 

“Er… yes?” Draco replied.

“Damn, never would’ve seen that one coming,” Ron joked half-heartedly. “A Malfoy, actually staying behind to learn Muggle Studies.”

Draco scoffed, visibly upset by Ron’s accusation. “You do know, Weasley, that I am actually trying to better myself, right? I’m sure  _ Potter _ has told you, since he seems to tell you every passing thought that comes to his damn mind.”

No one spoke. Harry’s face melted into a frown, shocked by Draco’s usage of his last name as means of an insult. 

Across the table Ron’s brows raised and he shot Harry a dark look that read, ‘See what I told you, dumbass.’

Noticing the heavy tension, Draco’s shoulders fell limp and he looked down at his empty plate with narrow eyes.

In a cold whisper, he said, “I’m… I’m going to go. Sorry.”

He stood up from the table quickly, grabbing his bag and darting away. Harry watched him go, blond hair disappearing behind the large oak doors of the Great Hall.

“Godric, what’s gotten into him?” Ron asked bitterly.

“I don’t know,” Harry said. “He… I thought we weren’t on a last name basis anymore. I don’t understand why he was such an arsehole just now.”

“Once an arsehole, always an arsehole.”

Ron shook his head and stood up from the table. Harry and Hermione both rose to join him.

“You know what, he doesn’t get to be mad like that,” Ron said. “Just because he’s suddenly all friendly to you doesn’t mean he gets to know every bit of information about you before we do.”

“That’s what you care about?” Hermione asked, stone-faced.

“Well, that and the fact that he can casually just say sorry to Harry, but still treats us like pixie shit,” Ron said angrily. 

“I told you guys I’m working on that with him.”

“He’s a prick, Harry, sometimes there’s nothing you can do to fix the bad shit a person’s done.”

***

“Checkmate!” Ron proclaimed loudly.

Harry’s King toppled over. He sighed, eyes flickering up to the clock overhead. Its hands moved inconsiderately slow.

They had already played three games. Ron, of course, had won every single round. It was nothing new. Harry rarely won at any chess game, no matter who he played against.

“Something bothering you?”

“What?” Harry murmured, distracted by the clock ticking. “No.”

“You keep looking up at,” Ron turned around to see what Harry was staring at, “that clock up there. Waiting for something? Or someone?” He added with a wink.

Harry pulled his gaze back to Ron. “No, I… no. I guess it’s just become a habit.”

Ron nodded. “I get you.”

He stood up and began packing away his chess set. The pieces had already rebuilt themselves, as they always did. The first time Harry had seen it, he’d marveled at their ability to get back up off the table so easily.

There were days he wished life was like that. Getting back up after falling so harshly onto the ground was exhausting and not to mention, mentally challenging. Harry begged often for sweet dreams to release those terrible thoughts.

They were always replaced with nightmares, however.

Recently, Draco would join Harry whenever he was awoken by Harry’s screams. The Slytherin would sit at the opposite side of the bed, back against the bedpost, book in hand, reading as Harry did his best to fall back into an uncomfortable sleep.

His presence was enough.

“Did I forgive him too easily?” Harry asked all of a sudden.

Ron finished putting away the last of the chess pieces. “A part of me would like to say yes because I hate him, but I also know that forgiveness comes in waves depending on the person. Events shift people’s outlook on life, redirect where they think they’re going, all that bullshit.” Ron crossed his arms. “Now, don’t tell Malfoy this, but a part of me is proud of you for it. You know, for not allowing even the worst of us to succumb to the aftershocks of war.”

“He’s not so bad.”

“Keep telling yourself that, mate.”

“I’m serious, Ron,” Harry said. “I promise he’s different now. Nicer, even. I mean, if you disregard what he said today at lunch, but all the same. You heard him. He’s participating in  _ Muggle Studies _ . I know that’s not enough for you, but it’s gotta be a start, right?”

Ron breathed out heavily, his chest sagging. “Tell him I’m working on it, but I’m not there yet. I probably won’t be there for a while. He still needs to take responsibility and own up for all the shit he’s said about my family, you know that.”

“Yeah, I do.”

“Well, Hermione requested my presence earlier once we wrapped up, so I’m just gonna… pop over and see her, so… don’t think I’m leaving you willingly,” Ron said.

Harry nodded plainly, lips pressed tight together, watching Ron walk over to another corner of the common room where Hermione beckoned to him.

They looked so happy together, a feeling that Harry craved so dearly. 

Happiness and Harry had a complicated relationship. For one, happiness always seemed to escape from Harry’s grasp whenever he thought he finally had a hold on it.

“May I sit?”

Harry looked up to see Draco staring down at him. His eyes were red-rimmed. 

“Yes, of course,” Harry spluttered.

Draco took a seat beside Harry on the large couch, moving his body so that he could lay down. He placed his head on Harry’s thigh, kicking out his legs until they rested on the arm of the couch, socked feet hanging over the edge.

“I’m not that tough,” he whispered. “All my life I had to try to be. That’s what my father wanted of me. To stand proud, be tough, never cry. He refused to accept that I was emotional by nature. Crying isn’t new to me, but sometimes it feels like it is.”

“So you  _ have _ been crying.”

“Obviously, you fucking numpty.”

Harry quieted. “Is it because of earlier? During lunch? It wasn’t that serious, you know that right. You just slipped up, that’s all.”

“‘Slipped up,’” Draco snorted. “Now you’re making excuses for me. It doesn’t suit you, Harry, it never will. If I fuck up it’s all my fault and that’s it. I’m too old to keep making excuses for what I do or say.”

“You’re only eighteen.”

“That  _ is _ old. I feel like I’ve lived a whole lifetime.”

Harry agreed silently. Was he really only eighteen? He felt decades old.

“Younger me would hate me now,” Draco said.

“Is that not a good thing?”

“I don’t know. I keep apologizing to you.”

“Really? That’s what’s keeping you up at night?”

“Yes,” Draco answered stubbornly. “And I’m about to do it again. I am… what I said earlier. It was nonsense. What Weasley said distracted me and I don’t even know what came over me.”

“What Ron said?”

“Don’t play daft,” Draco said. “He was acting like we were all thirteen again. Gushing over you liking someone. I don’t get the appeal, really.”

“Well, Ron’s never been that good at keeping secrets.”

“That’s quite obvious.”

They fell into a steady stream of silence. Harry began to brush Draco’s thin hair with his fingers, pushing loose strands away from falling into his face. For a minute, Harry believed Draco had fallen asleep in his lap, until—

“If Weasley didn’t tell me that earlier, would you have told me at all?”

“That I think I like someone?”

“Yes.”

“I…” Harry didn’t want to lie, so he didn’t. “No, I don’t think I would’ve.”

Draco sat up swiftly and slowly, removing his head carefully from Harry’s lap. He had to shift around a little to detangle himself from Harry’s touch.

“Why not?”

A white-lie couldn’t hurt. “I know that we’re friends and all now, but there are some things reserved for the people in my life who’ve been there for everything. And it’s not even relevant to us.”

“It’s not relevant to us?”

“Yes,” Harry answered stoically. “You know, we talk and all, but I don’t even know that much about you, really. I know your past, the angry, arsehole-ish pieces of you, but you’re so private with your words.”

“Oh.”

He sank back down slowly until his head returned softly to Harry’s thigh. And when Harry went to place his hand back into the blond mass of hair, Draco just grabbed it with his own and held it tight.

“Are you alright?” Harry asked.

“You say that we don’t know much about each other and that’s true, I suppose, but, and don’t fucking laugh at me, I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I learned your name,” Draco said, nostalgia painting his words. “So I’m going to be brave like you for a minute and tell you something I’ve never told anyone else.”

That was new. 

Revealing things,  _ wanting _ to reveal things even when no one asked. That was something… something friends did.

But they  _ were _ friends now, weren’t they? Though, it did confound Harry, the fact that he didn’t really know Draco. Truly know Draco.

“Is it something bad?”

“My parents would surely think so,” Draco replied gravely. “I can only hope you won’t think the same.”

“I mean, nothing can be worse than being a Death Eater,” Harry joked nervously.

Draco whipped his head upward, a menacing glare etched in his eyes. It shared too many similarities to younger Draco, when Draco was still Malfoy. 

“Ex-Death Eater,” Harry corrected himself quickly.

“What I’m trying to say is,” Draco worded very carefully, “I’m gay.”

The confession crowded into Harry’s mind. A series of heightened, unsure, yet excited emotions flooded through his body.

He added, frightened: “Don’t tell anyone.”

And it was funny sometimes, the way that life worked. Today life favored Harry. Today life was giddy and buoyant, reminding him that sometimes things went right.

“Oh, that’s nothing bad at all,” Harry said, squeezing Draco’s hand.

“You say that now, but because I am… who I am, I’ll never get to be happy the way you will be someday,” Draco grumbled. “Not how Weasley and Granger are, or anyone else for that matter. And it’s… I don’t think… I don’t think I can recall a moment where I’ve ever been happy the way a person should be happy.”

“What makes you say that?”

“I’m a Malfoy, a Pureblood.”

Harry could hear the sadness, hear the desperation leaking from his words.

He continued: “My mother and father have planned out my future since the day I was conceived. I already know who I’ll marry and it won’t ever be for love. And to be honest, I don’t think I was ever destined for love anyways. Even worse, everything now is all just to put the Malfoy name in a kinder light, to continue our bloodline, and to ruin my fucking life.”

“You don’t really have to follow through with your parent’s wishes though, right?” Harry petitioned. “Your dad’s in Azkaban and I’m pretty sure your mum’s not leaving that damn Manor anytime soon.”

Draco stared sadly up at Harry before tugging his hand away.

“I have to make my mother happy,” Draco said. “If they ever knew that I was… It would be the end of me.”

“What about your own happiness? Are you not even going to consider it?”

“You don’t understand,” Draco mumbled.

“I think I understand quite clearly,” Harry said defensively. “You’ve been working to clear up your past, erase all that bullshit, racist pureblood ideology and now you’re what? Clinging to the idiotic pureblood tradition preventing you from your own fucking happiness? From your individuality?”

Draco moved, pressing his face into Harry’s stomach, smothering himself. Harry could feel the cloth of his jacket start to wet with tears.

“It’s required of me.” Draco’s voice was hard and ragged against Harry’s stomach. “This is such bullshit. I hate being vulnerable in front of you all the time.”

“Deal with it,” Harry said plainly. “I can’t count all the times I’ve cried to Ron and Hermione. It’s normal. It’s natural.”

“But it’s always you,” Draco whispered. “It’s  _ only _ you.”

Harry didn’t know how to reply. All he knew were his words, his experiences.

All his childhood Harry had refused to be emotional. If he cried, Aunt Petunia would yell at him for his ungratefulness, if he was angry, Uncle Vernon would call him insolent, if he was happy, Dudley would squash it right out of him. Literally.

But he’d come to Hogwarts and found  _ real _ friends. 

Harry learned that all his reactions were normal and nothing to be punished for. Ron cried, too. Hermione got angry, too. All three were happy when they were together.

And to him, it was bizarre, yet understandable to see Draco so uncomfortable with showing emotion. He’d been such a whiny child, pompous and insanely demanding. The only emotion Draco could summon without embarrassment had been anger. 

Draco, Harry now knew, cried in private. It was a weakness, something that Malfoy’s were shunned for showing. 

Draco had… had never been truly happy, that’s what he’d said. And it showed.

There were things detached from him. Things that he was missing and needed to recover. Harry could help him with that. Harry could try.

Voice still low, Draco said, “Why are you still here?”

“What?”

“Wouldn’t you rather be with Weasley or Granger?” Draco insisted. “You know, no matter how much I apologize, I’m not fit to be forgiven. We  _ hate _ each other and now I’m crying into your… your dirty, old jacket as you reprimand me with kind affirmations.”

Harry shook his head, disbelieving.

“You doubt yourself too much,” Harry said pointedly. “But here’s what, I hate that you were a bully. I wish so badly that that didn’t define either of our pasts. I don’t hate you now and I know you don’t hate me back. It’s just… perhaps we needed that piece of our past to pursue our story. In the end, you saved me by not giving me up at your Manor and I saved you right back and, by the grace of Godric, saving your life saved mine for a second time.”

“Our story?”

“Don’t be a sap over it.”

“I’m not,” Draco chided. “I’m just… learning how to be appreciated.”

“That is very sappy of you, Draco Malfoy.”

“Don’t say my name like that.”

“Want me to include the middle name?”

“Fuck no.”

Harry stuck out his bottom lip in a pout. “You’re a big fucking sap, Draco, just give up the charade.”

Draco unlatched his tear-stained face from Harry’s jacket. He laid there, looking up at Harry with red-rimmed and mystified eyes.

“What did you mean when you said that saving my life led to you being saved a second time?” he asked.

Harry hadn’t really told the story to anyone except Ron and Hermione. No one else had the pleasure of knowing Harry  _ had _ actually died a second time.

However, since they were finally swapping secrets, it wouldn’t hurt to tell. 

After all, telling someone you died for a second time and came back was kind of the same as telling someone you were gay. There are mixed reactions, for one. Positive and negative. Bewildered disbelief and, last of all, acceptance.

At least, that’s what Ron’s reaction had been. It was indeed an interesting revelation at the Burrow that night.

Here went nothing. “During the Battle, I went down to the forest to see Voldemort. That’s what he asked for and I was prepared to give myself up. I was ready to die, you see. And that’s exactly what happened. I just stood there, accepting of my fate, and let the Killing Curse hit me. After all, that was my part in the war. To die. So, I did what was required of me.”

“You… died?” Draco was breathless. “Like really died? I thought somehow… that you… that you tricked him.”

“No, you’re right, I did trick him,” Harry said. “But I did die, that part is true. At least, a part of me did. You see, when Voldemort came to kill me when I was a baby, he accidentally left a part of himself inside me. I became a Horcrux, evidently.”

“So only the part of you that was… that was  _ him _ , died?”

“Yeah, pretty much.”

Draco’s mouth hung open in curious shock, his blond hair pooled in Harry’s lap.

“You really are the bravest person I know.”

“Don’t say that, I just did what I needed to do.”

“Harry Potter, you cannot tell me crying is normal and natural and then go around and deny facts,” Draco said. “You fat fucking hypocrite.”

“But I’m being honest.”

“You’re being stupid. Just accept the compliment and move on.”

Harry sucked in a breath. “It’s just… it’s weird when you say things like that to me. It’s such a turn around from your usual insult. It’s like I’m not even talking to the right person.”

“Don’t ask me to change and then get mad when I do.”

“I’m not mad,” Harry said. “I’m really fucking happy.”

“Oh.” Draco’s eyes widened. 

Draco paused before continuing, eyes watching the flames in the fireplace spit sparks. “I really thought you died. When he stepped into the courtyard and that… and Hagrid was carrying your limp body. It felt like I had died instead.”

“Don’t tell me things like that.”

“Why not?”

Harry didn’t want to say, so instead, he lied. Again. “It’s late. I’m very tired. I just want to sit here and exist.”


	15. chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I overcome myself, the sufferer; I carried my own ashes to the mountains; I invented a brighter flame for myself.” — Thus Spoke Zarathustra, Friedrich Nietzsche

The truth about Draco Malfoy was that he relied too much on money. Though the Malfoy family vault had dwindled — paying reparations and the like — Draco typically acted, when around others that weren’t Harry, that loss had not been huge (It had been, sort of).

In accordance to acting like he still had copious amounts of money, there was a need for performance, as Draco put it plainly.

Harry, who was going along with Draco’s plan regardless, didn’t understand why the Slytherin was going to such dramatic lengths. He only needed to apologize, not spend scores of money on rare, one of a kind books or expensive Chudley Cannons match tickets.

(Harry also didn’t understand why the tickets were still so expensive due to the fact that the Chudley Cannons lost every match they played.)

But if this was how Draco set out to express his regret and sorrowful actions, then who was Harry to stop him? There were worse ways to go about apologies.

“You’ve been sitting with us at lunch every day now,” Harry said offhandedly as he sat on the edge of his bed, swinging his legs carelessly. “Ron is getting very suspicious.”

“He has no need to be suspicious,” Draco replied casually, sealing up a letter. “I’m not doing anything wrong.”

“You say that now.”

“Should I just not sit with you at all then?” Draco grumbled. “Take my meals in the Library instead? Alone?”

He tossed the sealed letter onto his bed and stuck out his bottom lip.

“No, I wasn’t suggesting that,” Harry said defensively. “And anyway, it hasn’t ever been a problem before.”

“Do you think it will start to be?”

“Not at all.”

It was evident that the two boys were growing closer to one another. And although it was something Harry would not have even considered a few months ago, he was now harboring feelings and yearning— yearning especially for the more playful undertones that friendships provided.

More so, it did not help that ever since that somber, exposing occurrence on the common room couch, something had been prickling at the back of Harry’s mind. For the briefest second, Harry considered the idea that there was more to Draco’s revelation than he was letting on.

Nevertheless, Harry did his best to ignore whatever was blossoming in the cavity of his stomach.

It wasn’t really possible that Draco saw such a level of trust in Harry yet, could he?

To be honest, it was quite distracting, and Harry was already having enough hardships in dealing with his own sexuality crisis. Life had too many complications for Harry to deal with. They kept growing, sprouting heads and limbs and grappling for his attention.

“What are you doing after exams?” Draco asked suddenly. “For Christmas break, I mean.”

“I might go with Ron and Hermione to the Burrow. Celebrate the holiday with his family,” Harry answered. “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing really,” Draco said backhandedly. “I just don’t think I’ll be spending all my time at the Manor. Just to visit mother, of course, but it… nevermind, that doesn’t matter. I can just come back to the castle through Hogsmeade after Christmas day.”

“Alone? Are you sure?”

“Worried about me, are you,  _ Potter? _ ”

“Shove off,” Harry shot back. “I was trying to be nice.”

Draco frowned, an unreadable look washing across his cheekbones. “Pretend I never asked about Christmas in the first place. Are Weasley and Granger in the common room?”

“How would I know?”

“Do you not have a tracker on them?” Draco alluded to the map.

“I mean,” Harry mustered, feeling the base of his neck heat. “Sometimes.”

Grabbing the letter of his bed, Draco shoved it into his pocket. He crouched down and rifled through his trunk, pulling from it a carefully wrapped package. There were two books inside, Harry knew that much.

“Let’s go see, then.”

Harry followed Draco from the dormitory room to the common room. While Draco was agile as he walked, Harry was clumsy and awkward. He had stubbed his toe more than once on the ( _ very _ ) short journey.

As it was the weekend, students could either be found indoors in their common rooms staying away from the snowy afternoon chill or out at Hogsmeade, sipping on butterbeer and snacking on chocolate frogs. Although, the eighth years had exhausted Hogsmeade to their best extent and most now lounged in the common area to pass the time.

The few students had crammed themselves onto the scattered couches and armchairs, and even a number of beanbags that had sprouted up in odd corners of the room. There was an acute homeliness to it all.

It reminded Harry dearly of the Burrow.

“There they are,” Harry said with a smile. “Over in the corner.”

Draco turned his head. “Ah, yes.”

Tucked away on a small, ratty couch, Ron was lying with his head on Hermione’s lap. It was sickeningly sweet and desperately domestic. 

It reminded Harry of himself and Draco just a tad, although they were not as… intimate like that.

Taking a deep breath, Draco pressed the package of books closer to his chest and made his way over to the couple on the couch.

Ron turned his head at the sound of footsteps and, upon seeing who it was that approached, sat upright swiftly. His sudden movement knocked the book Hermione was reading to the floor with a flutter of pages.

“What the hell is wrong with you!?” she shrieked, shoving her boyfriend roughly on the shoulder.

“I… er, sorry ‘Mione,” he muttered shamefully. “I spotted Malfoy coming over and it startled me, alright?”

“I would prefer it if you didn’t talk about me like I’m not here.”

Draco’s gaze switched between the two, sparing them annoyed glances as Harry came up behind him, peering over Draco’s shoulder and down at his friends sympathetically.

“We weren’t,” Ron said quickly.

“Don’t play dumb, Weasley,” Draco snapped. “You literally just said my name. Harry can vouch for me on this.”

“Don’t rope  _ me _ into this!” Harry exclaimed.

“ _ Fine _ .”

“No problem,” Ron added. “What brings your little rodent arse over here, anyways,  _ Malfoy? _ ”

“Actually,” Draco said, ignoring Ron’s snide comment, “I have something for the both of you.”

Hermione, who hadn’t said a single word since Draco approached, visibly straightened. Her shoulders pushing outward, body going rigid as a lampost.

“Is it what you’re holding?” she asked suspiciously, nose in the air.

“Yes, it is.”

“Is it poison?” said Ron narrowly with sharp, accusing eyes. “Are you trying to poison the two of us or something?”

“For your information,  _ Weasley _ , Harry watched me wrap and seal both of these. I know you don’t trust me and I understand why, but he can assure you that I’m not about to poison you,” Draco answered. And if the gifts weren’t poisonous in nature, his words sure were.

“What is it, then?” Ron sniffed.

Draco withdrew the letter from his pocket carefully. “They are gifts,” he said, and thrust both the letter and package into Ron and Hermione’s hands. “To help me apologize.”

In silence, Ron, with tentative fingers, pried open the letter as Hermione slowly picked at the brown wrapping paper.

“I, er… I got some help with these, and I…” Draco trailed off, his voice was shaky, uneasy in the way that one gets when their body is flooded with nerves. “I apologize for calling you what I did. For… all the, you know… targeted harassment. I am letting go of those views and I’m doing everything I can to put the Death Eater title behind me.”

Ron, too busy admiring the Chudley Cannons tickets (there were three in total— one for each of the trio) to respond, let his mouth drop open. Hermione, however, ran a finger down the two book spines (rare, limited edition, collector novels), glanced briefly at the covers and said: “Thank you very much.”

“Oh, I—” Draco began.

“—But you really didn’t need to do all this,” Hermione cut him off abruptly. “I appreciate the gesture, I’m sure that Ron does, too, but you can’t just buy someone’s forgiveness.”

Draco’s face dropped, he was at a loss for words, Harry could tell. Though, there was a defiant look bubbling in his eyes and Draco had opened his mouth to speak when Harry took over.

“He did apologize, though,” Harry said and then ad-libbed: “I recommended that he should add something else to make it all… easier.” 

“Oh, Harry, I know you mean well, but apologies are never meant to be easy,” Hermione remarked warmly, her voice like honey.

Ron, without any warning, stood up and stuck his hand out in Draco’s direction. He motioned for Draco to shake it, which he did— hesitantly.

“Don’t think for a second that I’m letting you off easy with this one, Malfoy,” he said. “But there was a time when you would’ve only bought these to wave them in my face and mock me. I’m reluctant, giving you any kind of shot, but it’s very visible… the effect that Harry has on you.”

“Tha—  _ What? _ ”

Harry, startled himself, said, “Yes,  _ Ron _ , what is this so-called ‘effect’ I have?”

Ron began to stutter profusely. “Godric, I don’t mean it like  _ that! _ Honestly!”

“What did you mean, then?” Draco asked roughly. His voice was harsh, riddled with self-consciousness and of what to say to refute any… accusations. 

“Like… that there are newer qualities to you, I guess,” Ron said, rubbing the back of his neck shyly. “I don’t know how you got under Harry’s skin, but it’s been good for you.”

“I… That’s not true. I can be perfectly good on my own.”

“Is that true, though?” Hermione said. “I’ve never seen you make a single decision for yourself. You even had Harry help you with this. Unlike Ron, I have my priorities sorted, and I can’t see you as anything other than a broken cog in the machine of hatred. If you want people to forgive you, do something that’s yours and yours only.”

Hermione stood and grabbed Ron by the wrist. “Harry, you’re a good person, I don’t doubt you’re doing this because you care about everyone in the equation. Just… you’ve become too attached.”

“I have not,” Harry denied. 

“You kind of have, mate,” Ron shrugged.

Hermione looked between the two odd boys and said. “Exams start tomorrow. I suggest the both of you get in some last-minute studying. Ron and I will be in the Library should you choose to join us.”

She whisked Ron away as he waved goodbye awkwardly to Harry.

As the couple ducked through the portrait, Draco reached out his fingers, hooking them around the soft fabric of Harry’s robe. He dragged Harry to the now unoccupied couch, where they took a seat nearly on top of one another.

“Are you?” Draco asked.

“Am I what?”

“Too attached, whatever that means.”

Harry turned his face away to watch the fireplace, a blush creeping up his neck steadily. “No. I, er… I don’t even know why they would think that.”

“Of course,” Draco said, his voice wilting.

“I think we should study,” Harry plowed on, pretending that Hermione’s words didn’t send a sharp pang through his body. “We’ve wasted enough time already.”

*** 

After tumultuous hours spent writing short (and long) answers to difficult questions for every goddamned subject — with a cramped wrist — and performing spells, with  _ and _ without a wand, for dozens of examiners, Harry thought he might keel over.

Currently, however, he sat on a bench outside the Great Hall, which was where the majority of the exams were taking place, waiting for Ron. Hermione and Draco, who’d finished their exams long before Harry, sat either side of him, boredom pressing against their skulls.

“Do we really have to wait for him?” Draco moaned, fingers curling in his hair, tugging impatiently at the blond locks.

“Yes,” Hermione shot back sternly.

Harry leaned back, his head hitting the wall lightly, as his eyes drifted shut. “You can leave if you want to.”

“No,” Draco said stiffly. “Everyone leaves tomorrow.”

“Then go do something else if you’re bored,” Harry said. “Better to spend your day doing something rather than sitting around with us.”

“But I want to stay with—”

The door to the Great Hall lurched open and Ron appeared, hair tousled and robes slipping from his shoulders. His face teetered between embarrassment and bemusement.

“Near about pulled a Seamus in there,” Ron joked.

Hermione sighed. “Not funny.”

“It kind of was,” Ron shrugged. “Well, not if I botched everything else. I can get off with one teensy error.”

“You say that,” Hermione tutted.

Harry stood. “We’ve been waiting for ages, mate. Let’s go do something.”

“Harry!” Ron beamed. “Almost didn’t see you there, ferret face was blocking the view.”

“Good to see you too, Weasley.”

Both Hermione and Draco stood, stretching out their limbs, backs cracking. They’d been there the longest. Harry wondered if they’d spoken at all until he showed up.

“Alrighty then,” Ron said. “Let’s go start a snowball fight, eh?” His voice was giddy, filled with childlike delight, as if he hadn’t nearly taken the examiner’s nose off with a poorly executed ignition spell.


	16. chapter 16

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Because you want to die for love, you always have.” — Planet of Love, Richard Siken

The Burrow sparkled with a warm, winter glow. From everywhere hung tinsel and wreaths, ribbons and streamers. A tall, pine tree stood valiant in the Weasley living room, the top of it barely brushing the sloping ceiling. Below it were at least four presents per resident (Harry and Ron had spent one day categorizing them out of boredness), wrapped in mismatched paper packages with curling fat bows adorning them.

Christmas with the Weasley’s was everything Harry had dreamed of growing up.

As a child, he used to sit, quiet and unmoving, hiding in the corner of the Dursley’s living room, watching as Dudley tore apart wrapping paper to reach his toys. All new, all shiny, all things Harry could never have. So he’d been told.

Harry had had his first real Christmas with Ron. It was only right to keep up the tradition now. It helped keep Harry sane.

However, the overall mood in the Weasley house was somber as Christmas Eve closed in around them. This was their first Christmas without Fred. Everyone was enveloped in a growing sadness— the lack of his presence was like a fire, swallowing the house.

That night, as Molly made a large dinner for ten, she worked in silence. Harry helped her, peeling potatoes and setting out the plates, knives, and forks.

He would do anything to try and keep her upright. She’d done so much for him over the years. If even the smallest things could keep her moving, he would do them.

“I miss him so much, you know,” George said to Harry that night as the family tucked in to their meal. “It’s like I’m missing a limb or something.”

“Yeah,” Harry agreed numbly.

“A part of you just… leaves afterward,” George continued as he pushed the potatoes around on his plate in a bored fashion. “Sometimes I’ll turn to tell him a joke and he’s not there to hear it. It’s harder when I’m here, eating with Mum and Dad, and it happens.”

Harry nodded, looking down solemnly at his plate, trying not to think about his parents. Or Sirius. Or Professor Lupin. Or anyone else he loved who suffered the same fate.

“Mum can hardly stand to look at me sometimes.”

“Cause you remind her so much of him?”

George bobbed his head up and down. “We were always the same person anyways.”

After that, George quieted down for a bit. His voice used to ring the loudest of the Weasleys, followed by Fred, of course, and then Ron. Tonight, however, no one could summon the same bubbly spirit of past Christmases.

Harry scarfed down the remnants of turkey from his plate, listening as Ginny spoke fervently to Fleur.

The conversation between the two girls flowed so casually. Fleur seemed entirely tuned in to whatever Ginny said, even if the topic didn’t interest her in the slightest.

That was a thing girls would always have that boys could never achieve. A pure understanding between one another. Harry wanted it, knowing it was impossible to reach. There always remained a lack of generosity between men and boys.

From their conversation, Harry learned Ginny would be graduating earlier than the rest of her class so that she could join the Holyhead Harpies for a tournament during the summer of next year. She’d been spending long afternoons at the start of Christmas break in the air on her broomstick, running over drills with Ron, who played keeper for her.

It made Harry both giddy and jealous.

Ginny had a future. She knew what she was going to do post-graduation and knew that she was going to do it well.

And what did Harry have? A vault full of money he didn’t spend, a will to find a job and keep with it, and absolutely zero aspirations. He was hopeless.

There were countless things he wanted to do, however. Break free from the Chosen One title, find someone he loved who would love him back — picturing any semblance of a future with Draco was forgettable; the very idea of the Slytherin liking him back was laughable — and travel.

Harry wanted to go places. He’d never even left the UK in his eighteen years of living. 

Maybe he could try traveling with Draco, who spoke highly of France and moving there after… well, after his mum passed. It was a sad thought, but it was Draco’s nonetheless, and there were some things best left to the heart.

As Christmas dinner concluded, the family shuffled upstairs to bed. In the morning they would all open presents, and then, perhaps, everything could be okay.

Mrs Weasley — Molly, she tried to get Harry to start calling her — pressed a warm, motherly kiss on his forehead, cupping his cheek lightly.

“I’m glad you could come,” she told him.

“You’re my family,” Harry said. “I will always come.”

Mrs Weasley smiled, lips closed, eyes wet. “You are so very loved, dear. Sleep well.”

“I will.”

Harry did not sleep well that night. In fact, his nightmares came swiftly and like a blanket, smothering him as he squirmed, fists clenching the sheets.

As sweat swam down his face, Harry felt two bodies join him in bed. Ron and Hermione. It couldn’t be anyone else.

They’d all been sleeping in Ron’s room anyway. Hermione with Ron in his bed and Harry across from them in the spare.

_ It’s to keep an eye on you _ , Hermione had said.  _ To make sure you’re alright _ .

Harry was very thankful for them. Sometimes he felt like he only ever needed Ron and Hermione to survive, but there was still… 

There was still Professor McGonagall and Mrs Weasley, who’d been like mothers to him. There were still the rest of the Weasleys, his brothers, almost. And Ginny, one of his greatest inspirations. There were still the oddballs, Neville and Luna, who’d shown him more of how the world worked than any professor could have. There was still Hagrid, who’d come to save him on that crag rock as ferocious winds whipped around the little shack that sat atop it.

And there was Draco, too. Someone Harry had always thought he hated and would hate forever. Someone who constantly provided an itch at the back of his mind. Someone who’d saved him and he’d saved right back.

Someone who  _ was _ worthy, after all these years.

“I’m sorry, guys,” Harry whispered.

“Don’t be,” Hermione whispered back. “Now shut up and go to sleep.”

When Harry awoke, the world felt different. Hermione’s nose was pressed into his back, and the sound of Ron’s snores filled his ears. It had always bothered Harry before, but not this morning.

He finally knew what he wanted to do.

Harry sat up carefully, moving Hermione away from him lightly so she didn’t wake. He tip-toed, making his way to one of the two closets set up in Ron’s room.

It had appeared there sometime before Harry’s fourth year. He knew not to question it. By then he was already a part of the family, there was no doubt about it. 

He had been from day one, when he’d spotted the family of red-heads in King’s Cross Station. From the very moment Mrs Weasley spoke to him to the very moment Ron joined him in the compartment on the Hogwarts Express. It was fate, plain and simple.

Quietly, Harry drew open the closet and pulled out a set of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt (to be quite frank, it was probably one of Ron’s that Harry had stolen), and a dark, fraying jacket whose sleeves nearly reached Harry’s thumbs.

In the bed, Hermione had unconsciously moved closer to Ron, who lay flat on his back, hand pressed against his stomach. The scene was happy. It nearly made Harry tear up.

“Don’t be mad at me,” Harry whispered,

In the back of his mind he heard Ron say,  _ we could never be _ . 

Harry slipped from the room after placing a hastily written note on the nightstand. He closed the door with a heavy sigh and crept down the stairs.

The rest of the house was asleep. Harry could hear the indomitable silence reverberating around the Burrow. It was a steady tranquility, one only achieved when you stepped onto the plains of another universe. Or the train station, in Harry’s case, which let you decide between death or life.

Harry maneuvered his way to the fireplace, where a pot filled with floo powder sat. He hated using the floo system, naturally, but he didn’t want to trek outside the Burrow wards in the snow to find an Apparition point.

He reached up his hand to grab some floo powder and—

“So you’re leaving without saying goodbye first?”

Harry whipped around, startled, and saw Ginny perched on the last step of the stairs. She was still dressed in pajamas, a bathrobe draped over her shoulders, hair still in a sleepy state of disarray.

It was obvious she had awoken when Harry had headed down the stairs. They passed just outside her room and she was a light sleeper. Always had been since the war started.

“It looks bad, doesn’t it?” Harry joked uncomfortably.

Ginny nodded. “The last time you snuck away from us you were gone for months.”

“It won’t be like that,” Harry said. “Not ever again.”

“So… are you running to something or away from something?”

“To something.”

“That makes sense, I can see it in your eyes.”

“What does it look like?”

“Like you’re in love.”

“I don’t really know what love is supposed to look like.”

Ginny frowned. “Do you not?”

“I think I’ve seen it before, in a sense, but I must have forgotten,” Harry said sadly, eyes glistening.

“I can see it. There,” Ginny said. “That’s the way you used to look at me.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, you dork. Love is always good, even if it doesn’t always work out.”

Harry shifted, stepping away from the fireplace. Ginny had come down from the stairs, inching closer to Harry with every passing second.

“Are you gonna prevent me from leaving?”

Ginny shook her head. “No. You’re chasing someone. I can’t hold you back from that.”

“You’re not upset?”

“That you’re leaving?” Ginny smirked knowingly. “No. I find it quite funny that you fell for the bad boy and I fell for the quirky, sunshine and daisies girl.”

Harry’s eyes widened.

“Oh, don’t look at me like that! Of course I know!”

“How? How could you possibly know?” Harry asked, frantic, worried that if Ginny knew, who else knew as well. “I haven’t told anyone. Not a single soul.”

“I told you from day one,” Ginny said. “You’ve always been infatuated with him.”

Harry looked down at the ground. He felt Ginny place a comforting hand on his shoulder, gripping him with warm intention. It steadied him, sort of. 

“He’s a total prick,” Ginny continued. “But you’ve made him less of a prick somehow. He’s less polished, less drilled into pureblood principle. Years of Malfoy etiquette are falling away like a snakes skin. I think there’s a kind part to him that’s been pulled out from the wreckage of life. I think he’s happier now that someone actually cares about him.”

“His parents care about him,” Harry stated dumbly.

“His parents thrust him into the middle of a war when he was just a child,” Ginny said smoothly. “They may be his parents, they may have loved him, definitely, but they didn’t care about him. However, the problem therein is that Malfoy may never part with the idea of them caring about him because that’s what every lonely child does.”

“But Dumbledore…”

“Also dragged you into a war you were not responsible for.”

Harry shook his head stubbornly, not wanting to believe her words. He’d clung for so long to the idea of Dumbledore being a centripetal force in his life that there were things he didn’t want to let go of, nor believe. 

“I think, in some weird way, the two of you were meant for one another.”

“Casualties of war,” Harry said.

“Indeed, casualties of war.”

Harry turned away from her and stepped up to the fireplace. He grabbed a handful of floo powder, moving around past the small grate.

“I’m leaving now,” Harry stated, swallowing harshly.

“Where to?”

“ _ The Three Broomsticks _ .”

Harry released the powder, which felt oddly like soot between his fingers, and watched it sprinkle the floor. Green flames sprouted from the ground, tickling him, taking him away.

He instantly felt sick as the floo worked its magic, removing him from the Burrow and to his destination. His stomach clenched and his forehead throbbed. 

As Harry tumbled through the fireplace of the Three Broomsticks, he banged his head on the low hanging lintel.

“Ow,” he said loudly. “What the fuck.”

“Harry Potter!” a voice called out cheerfully.

Harry blinked, rubbing his forehead, which would probably start to sprout a nice bruise later. Maybe he’d pop down to the Hospital Wing, find Madame Pomfrey and get it sorted.

“What are you doing here?” It was Madam Rosmerta. “Not even the roosters are awake!”

“I’m…” Harry trailed as he struggled to get to his feet.

“Here, let me help.”

Madam Rosmerta pulled Harry up from the ground, stabilizing him. She took him gently to a table and sat him down.

“May I get you anything, Mr Potter?”

“No, thank you.”

He was probably too early. 

There would be no catching Draco up at the castle, running into him at breakfast. Surprising him. Telling him that he didn’t have to celebrate Christmas alone.

He’d probably stay at the Manor most of the morning, anyway. Why should he not? His mother was there. 

This was such a difference from their first year, too. Harry had been bound to spend Christmas alone at the castle (though, Ron had stayed behind, which made Harry eternally grateful) and Draco had gone home, to be coddled and loved by his parents.

They probably did love him, despite Ginny’s words. Narcissa doubtlessly loved Draco. She’d risked her skin saving Harry just to know if he was still alive.

Lucius, however, that was another story. He was a cruel man, no matter the situation.

“Are you sure I can’t get you anything?” Madam Rosmerta asked again. “Water?”

Harry shook his head. “I can get some up at the castle.”

“Will you walk all the way? By yourself?”

“Countless students do it all the time,” Harry said. “I’ll be fine. I need some fresh air, even if it’s cold outside.”

Harry stood and headed to the door. Madam Rosmerta came after him, whipping out her wand before he could fiddle with the door handle.

She cast a warming spell upon him.

The spell settled pleasantly around him, enveloping him in a giant hug, protecting him like no winter coat or cloak could do. It was a heavy spell, something filled with love and thankfulness. He was still a savior to her, in the end.

But it was nice to be cared for. That was all Harry craved when he was younger.

Now he was chasing someone down. For their company. To be seen by them.

That was the greatest gift of being in love. Getting to visualize the person. Understanding each little quirk they had. Finding little imperfections among the beauty that ensconced them. Even if Draco didn’t reciprocate Harry’s feelings, he could find comfort in knowing that Draco would always be around.

That was enough, if it had to be. Harry had suffered worse. 

What was a little heartbreak compared to war?

A water droplet among a storm. If Harry could brave a storm, he could stand to let the droplet slide down his cheek in the shape of a lonesome tear.

“Thank you,” Harry said. “For everything you do. Running the Three Broomsticks isn’t easy. Hogwarts students are a nightmare, honestly.”

“You aren’t all that bad.”

“I think I’m starting to believe that, actually.”

***

Mirroring the Burrow’s absent atmosphere, Hogwarts also wasn’t awake yet. Dozens of portraits still dozed in their frames and torches lining the walls sprouted small blazes. The sound of Harry’s footsteps echoed throughout the corridors, even though he tip-toed as quietly as he could.

It was too empty to stay downstairs in the Great Hall and Harry knew he would have nothing to do but sit, pondering about mindless things, so he decided to head up to the eighth year common room and kickback.

No one would be there, but at least there were things to do. Hermione had left some books behind, so had Draco. Or he could dig out a muggle card (or board) game from the makeshift shelf Neville, Seamus, and Dean had installed on one lonely wall.

That was alright with Harry. He could wait as long as he needed until Draco got here.

The walk to the common room was rejuvenating. Harry had finally finished shaking away the traces of snow from the bottom of his shoes and a nice, peachy color was returning gracefully to his cheeks.

The sound of his shoes striking the floor rebounded off the walls. It was a chilling sound. The thud was the only thing Harry could hear for what felt like miles.

It was all so different from the war. No matter how silent Hogwarts got, at least it would never have the screams of students filling the corridor again.

Harry could still see colorful flashes of light when he turned corners. Red, yellow,  _ green _ . A stoplight that had an ending. That didn’t restart. When green meant the finish line instead of the beginning of a cycle.

That was enough.

He wasn’t here to remember the pain of Before. There were other times for mourning. Better times.

When Harry entered the common room, choking back terrible thoughts, he was met by the same leeching emptiness as that one night when he’d snuck off to find Draco. It was alarming, but at the same time, it held a sense of serenity that you couldn’t get anywhere else. 

Deciding to mooch off Draco’s leftover books, Harry crept down to their room. 

He opened the door slowly and—

Draco was dozing in his bed, his left cheek burrowed into his pillow. His right arm was slung above him, fingers brushing the headboard ever so slightly.

The covers were pulled up to his waist and he was shirtless.  _ Fuck _ , why was he shirtless?

Harry tip-toed to Draco’s bed and hovered over his body, distracted by the endless canvas of skin. He was so pale. He was… covered in thin, little scars that shot across his abdomen, rips and tears on his near-perfect chest.

Harry had done that. Those were Harry’s crimes. His regrets, shoved into small ridges on pale skin, staring him straight in the face.

_ Fuck _ .

Draco had never wanted him to see this. He was ashamed and so was Harry. Although, for wildly different reasons.

“Draco,” Harry whispered.

The Slytherin stirred, his fingers twitching slightly. His thin brows furrowed, lips parting gently. 

“Draco,” Harry tried again, louder than the first time.

Slowly, Draco’s eyes peeled open, fluttering in the morning light. He struggled to blink away the nights sleep, stretching out his arms, exhaling contentedly. 

“Good morning.”

Draco, for the first time, noticed Harry sitting on the edge of his bed.

“ _ Oh, fuck _ , Harry! What the fuck?”

He scrambled to pull the covers over his chest, shrinking closer against the headboard. It was safe to say that Draco was fully awake now.

“Did I startle you from your beauty sleep?” Harry teased.

Having no time for morning niceties, Draco dived straight in questioning. “When the fuck did you get here?”

“Not going to say good morning back?”

“Fuck off, please,” Draco groaned. “I didn’t know you were going to just randomly show up on Christmas morning and scare the shit out of me.”

“I can’t believe you kiss your mother with that mouth,” Harry said jokingly.

“I don’t kiss anyone with this mouth,” Draco replied roughly. “Now, if I say good morning will you piss off and let me find a shirt?”

Harry nodded. 

“Good morning, then, you annoying arsehole.”

“Good morning to you, too, princess.”

Draco shot him the middle finger menacingly and motioned for Harry to turn around. Harry did. It was only respectable.

He heard Draco’s feet hit the floor and begin to move about the room, collecting his clothes and slipping on a shirt. Once he was satisfied with the notion that Draco was, in fact, wearing one, he spun around.

“You don’t need to cover up those scars around me,” Harry said.

“Yes, I do.”

“Why?”

“They’re ugly,” Draco said matter-of-factly. “Sometimes I wish Snape would’ve just let me bleed out then and there.”

Harry’s face fell. “You shouldn’t say things like that.”

“You’re only saying that to be nice.”

“No, I’m saying it because I’m glad you’re not dead.”

Draco turned to look at him, eyes soft and bristling with… sad anger. “Why use that spell on me at all, then? Huh?”

“I didn’t know what it would do,” Harry answered.

“Then why did you fucking use it anyway? Why?”

This didn’t sound like Draco. Or maybe it did. All the unspoken, angry parts of him leaking out. The anger that he  _ wasn’t _ allowed to have.

“I found the spell in an old book,” Harry said simply. “All it said was that it was a spell to use on your enemies.”

“And what? You didn’t question it? Not for a second?”

“I ignored it at first. Then I saw you in the bathroom and you almost…” Harry was heating up now. “You almost used the Cruciatus Curse on me!”

Draco sighed heavily, tears breaching his eyes. “It wouldn’t have worked.”

“Wh… What?” Harry mustered.

“To use that spell you have to mean it, you idiot.”

“But you were…”

“I was in the middle of a breakdown and the one person I could never let see me like that walked into the fucking bathroom,” Draco interrupted.

“And you didn’t mean it?”

“I could never hurt you like that.”

Harry’s face eased slowly. He could feel the tension flee his features, evacuating his forehead, freeing him from an old, wrinkled appearance. This was so…  _ confusing _ .

“You say that knowing I’m the one that did more damage to you,” Harry breathed out. “How?”

“If I had to die, I could die peacefully knowing it was  _ you _ who killed me.”

“But I couldn’t have lived knowing I’d killed you!”

Draco straightened his posture, pushing away Harry’s confession. “How did you get here? Why are you even here now?”

“Why are  _ you  _ here?”

“Well, I  _ was _ sleeping peacefully until you arrived.”

“When did you get in? Last night?”

“Is this an interrogation?”

“If it has to be,” Harry said, “then yes.”

Draco shrugged on his cloak and came over to the bed, sitting down carefully. There was too much weight in his walk, as if he was carrying something incredibly heavy. The burden of life, perhaps.

“I never left,” Draco revealed.

“But you took the train home with us?”

“I never got off… Don’t you remember?”

Harry  _ did _ remember. How Draco had mentioned, in a hushed voice, that he’d accidentally left something behind in the compartment they’d shared with Ron and Hermione. And then… Harry hadn’t seen him again after that.

“You stayed on the train,” Harry concluded.

“I rode it all the way back to the castle,” Draco said in a whisper. “I was too much of a coward. I couldn’t face my mother. I… I couldn’t face the Manor.”

“But that was days ago,” Harry murmured.

“It was.”

“You’ve been here alone all this time?”

Draco nodded, picking stubbornly at the threads on his bedsheets. His whole body sagged. There was no Slytherin might stored in his bones right now.

He was coming apart at the seams and it was very terrifying and very freeing.

“I would have been alone anyways.”

“You should have said something,” Harry spoke fervently. “I would’ve come sooner.”

“I didn’t know you were coming at all.”

“Well, I’m here now,” Harry said and placed an unsure hand on Draco’s shoulder. “Why didn’t you go home? See your mother? Why stay here?”

“I love her,” Draco replied. “But I’m a different person than she remembers. Everything in that Manor would only hold me back. I don’t want to be held back anymore. I don’t want to be forever tied to my past. Because I know if I go see her, alone, I’ll probably just… fall away.”

“Does she know you’re here?”

“Yes.”

Draco’s body was slowly inching closer to Harry. Though, there still remained an uncomfortable amount of distance between them.

“You really came all this way?” Draco asked.

“Without giving the Weasley’s a proper goodbye, too.”

“They’ll be upset with you.”

“Maybe,” Harry said. “But they love me. They’ll understand. I left a note for Ron, too, and Ginny caught me just before I left.”

“And she didn’t stop you?”

“She encouraged me to come, actually.”

Draco struggled to push out a laugh. “Sure. Don’t toy with me. I know she doesn’t like me, just like everyone else.”

“That’s not true.”

“I want to believe that,” Draco said sadly.

He stood suddenly, Harry’s hand falling away from Draco’s shoulder. Motioning with a finger, Draco indicated for Harry to stand up alongside him.

“Breakfast should be ready,” Draco said. “Since you’re here, there’s something I want to show you after.”

Together, they made their way down to the Great Hall, which now sparkled to life with candles dotting the mock-sky above. It seemed the rest of the world had finally awoken during the time Harry had gone and discovered Draco asleep in bed.

The fellow students that had stayed behind were all mingling around one table.

Christmas was a time when no one should be alone. Decidedly, that was exactly the reason Harry had come… alongside some other, more personal, reasons.

The two boys took a seat side-by-side at the long table and began to pile their plates.

“This meal is so much quieter without Weasley and Granger,” Draco said, contented. “I do prefer when it’s just us. Although, Granger does help carry more academic driven conversations from time to time, which are sometimes enjoyable.”

“Hey, I make good conversation, too.”

“Sometimes. Just not smart ones.”

Harry watched Draco carefully as the Slytherin slathered his toast in a thick coat of jam. As he lifted the slice of toast to bite into, Harry pushed Draco’s hand up into his face. 

“Fuck, Harry!” Draco whined.

A nice layer of apricot jam coated Draco’s nose and spread out over his pale cheeks. He looked like a child who’d only just started learning how to eat by themselves. And fucked it up exponentially.

“I think you’ve got something on your face.”

“Oh,  _ you think _ .”

“Sometimes,  _ Draco _ ,” Harry said, “I think it’s good if you’re not so uptight all the time.”

“I wasn’t being uptight.”

“Doesn’t matter, you’ve got jam on your face.”

Draco grabbed his napkin and dipped it into his goblet, which, if one had ever met Draco, already knew was filled with water and he wasn’t about to just lather his face with pumpkin juice. He slowly cleaned the jam off his face. 

“In another time I would’ve said, ‘my father will hear about this,’” Draco murmured.

“No corporal punishment for me then,” Harry laughed. “I get off Scot free!”

“Of course  _ you’d _ like to think that.”

As Harry smirked unwittingly, Draco picked up his goblet and thrust it into Harry’s face. The water hit him with a light splash, splattering down the front of his shirt.

Harry gasped and wiped away the wetness coating his face.

“I’m going to freeze!”

“Being a little cold won’t kill you,” Draco replied haughtily. “Get up. I want to give you your Christmas gift.”

“Wait,” Harry paused. “You actually got me something?”

A smile tugged at Draco’s lips but didn’t form. “Obviously. I would’ve given it to you somehow if you hadn’t shown up yourself. Come now. I promise it’s much better than those, no doubt absolutely genius, Potter Stinks badges I made fourth year.”

“And was that a gift, too?”

“A gift from the heart.”

***

Harry followed Draco out of the Great Hall, through the giant oak doors that led to the front lawn, and down past Hagrid’s Hut. They stopped in front of the small structure that had been erected for the new Care of Magical Creatures professor.

Snow crunched beneath their boots as Harry pulled his cloak tighter around his body, protecting his soggy shirt from making him even more chillier than need be.

“You can cast a spell to dry yourself up, you know,” Draco suggested.

“Yes, I know.”

He did not cast a drying spell, just tugged at his thick cloak even more. Getting rid of the water now — though it was already drying itself — would mean that them joking around was something small-scale. Harry  _ wanted _ this less antagonistic approach at poking fun to stay.

“Why are we out this far?” Harry asked, growing steadily suspicious as he eyed the cottage. “Where are you taking me?”

“Don’t be so nervous. Just give me a minute.”

Draco knocked on the little door of Professor Wulff’s cottage. It was new, built during the reconstruction period post-war, with a thatched roof and flower beds planted under the already grimy window sills.

The door creaked open to reveal a man with a round face and a startlingly long beard.

“Ah, Mr Malfoy,” Professor Wulff greeted brightly.

“Professor,” Draco greeted back. “I’ve brought a friend.”

A friend. Like he had many.

Even so, hearing Harry described as  _ a friend _ of Draco’s still sparked an immeasurable amount of relief. Gave remembrance to the fact that they’d survived their past and were still surviving; still learning, most importantly, forgiveness.

“Ah, yes,” Professor Wulff said, words rattling with a gruff American accent. “Mr Potter. I’ve heard a great many stories about you. Those from the papers, of course, but some from your friends… and my fellow colleagues, as well.”

“Pleasure to meet you,” Harry replied.

“Professor, may I show him… oh, you know,” Draco said impatiently, a trait he would always have— one that Harry could never try to scrub out because he shared it, too. “I want to keep it as much of a surprise as I can.”

“Yes, yes, come on in.”

Professor Wulff ushered Draco and Harry into his cottage. It was as cozy as it appeared on the outside and just as warm. Thin curtains swayed mystically in an absent wind as a fire roared brilliantly in the fireplace. A wooden rocking chair sat right side, next to an end table which hosted thin bamboo plants molded to form a circular-shaped bed-like object. There was a plush pillow inside, but if anything lived there, it had gone off somewhere else.

The professor guided them from the makeshift living room into a workshop, although it was impossibly large on the inside, like a size increasing charm had been cast over the whole room. 

Giant metal cages lined the walls and hay littered the ground. There were small crunching noises every time Harry took a step, and he prayed it was hay and not little animal bones.

Inside the cages sat all sorts of magical creatures, squawking and cooing when they realized Professor Wulff had entered the room.

“Is this where you teach?” Harry asked in awe.

“When it gets cold out such as now,” Professor Wulff replied. “Otherwise, I believe both the students and creatures prefer the outdoors.”

“It’s like a zoo in here.”

“A zoo?” Draco repeated in confusion.

Professor Wulff laughed heartily. “I would not call it as such, Mr Potter. I like to think of this place as a Sanctuary instead.”

They approached a miniature tree with thick branches and large clumps of leaves sticking to the ends. 

“Here we are, Mr Malfoy,” Professor Wulff said. “I will leave the rest to you.”

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Just be careful.”

“I always am.”

Professor Wulff shot a wink in Draco’s direction and headed back to the door which led to his makeshift living room. He didn’t once turn around and look back.

Harry snorted in amazement. It seemed like more people trusted Draco than he originally thought.

“He is from New Mexico in America,” Draco said shortly. “I do not think he knows the full weight of my past actions, therefore he is the only professor who actually gives me the light of day.”

“That’s… good on him, I guess.”

Draco turned away from the door and glanced down at the tree. It, for a quick second, shook, like a bird ruffling its feathers.

“Now, just as he said. Be careful.”

Draco whistled softly, a tiny tune that came from right beside Harry, yet sounded so far away. There was a pause, as if time had stopped, until a small yellow ball came hurtling from the tree leaves and onto Draco’s palm, which was held outstretched.

Harry looked down at the creature. It was entirely circular, with a thin, long beak and two beady eyes that seemed to judge Harry’s every movement.

A Snidget.

“Merlin’s beard,” Harry whispered.

“I know, right,” Draco said brightly. “It’s like… one of the last of its kind, Professor Wulff said. He found it in the marshes, right where Quidditch was founded. He rescued it.”

“Ron mentioned a Snidget a while back, I thought…” Harry trailed. “Can I?”

Harry held his palm out eagerly. The Snidget eyed him curiously.

“Just be gentle, please,” Draco said. “I’m one of Wulff’s favorite students. I can’t go ruining my reputation all over again.”

“I will be. Promise.”

Carefully, Draco placed the Snidget in Harry’s palm. It was fuzzy and warm as it brushed against his skin. There was nothing so weightless and more perfect in the world. No wonder they had been hunted for sport.

“Does it have a name?” Harry asked.

“If it does, I don’t know it,” Draco replied. “That’s the one thing Wulff won’t tell me. I think, personally, the reason he won’t is because he never actually named it.”

“Then what would you name it?”

“Pardon?”

“You heard me. What would you name it?” 

Draco paused, petting the Snidget lightly with a single finger. He looked Harry straight in the eye, and full of conviction, said: “ _ Survivante _ .”

“Okay…?” Harry trailed off.

“I’m…” Draco blushed, his cheeks turning red from embarrassment. “This was supposed to be your gift. I just… you love Quidditch and I thought it would be nice to see… since you’re a Seeker. Or were. But I realize now it might all be in poor taste, since the early Seekers killed off most of the Snidget’s back before they made an official Snitch, and—”

“Thank you, Draco,” Harry cut him off.

He set the Snidget gently down in front of the small tree and pulled Draco into a tight hug. The Slytherin practically melted into Harry’s arms.

They stood there for a minute, holding each other as Draco buried his face into Harry’s shoulder like he’d been waiting for this moment for centuries.

Harry pulled away first, reluctantly, drawing his arms back close to his body.

“I actually got you something, too,” Harry said.

“Really?” Draco’s eyes lit up.

“Yes, my sparkling companionship.”

Draco’s face fell. “Oh, piss off.”

“I’m only joking,” Harry said lightly. “No need to get so beat up over it.”

He reached down to the pocket of his jacket and pulled out the only thing he’d brought with him from the Burrow. A neat, black journal with the initials  _ D.M. _ imprinted on the edge in fine, gold letters.

“I saw that you were running out of pages in your old one,” Harry said. “It’s so you can fill up more pages with my name, if you’d like.”

“Please don’t ruin the moment.”

Draco accepted the journal, his forefinger trailing down the smooth binding.

His father had bought him the last one and Harry had wanted Draco to find new memories without the weight of the past holding him back. There were things he would be able to write in this journal that he hadn’t in the last.

Good things. Happy things. Things that neither Harry or Draco had ever dreamed of being able to see. 

“I know it’s not the best gift… considering the fact that you took me out here to see a near-extinct species,” Harry said quickly as he nervously awaited Draco’s reaction.

“Oh, shut up, will you. You don’t know how much this means to me.”

“So you like it?”

“Salazar,  _ yes _ , I  _ love _ it,” Draco exclaimed. “All the things mother and father bought me when I begged for something… those can’t even compare. They were just, I don’t know, playing a role in order to make my childhood happier, I guess. I don’t think they really put much thought or care into what they bought me. But  _ you _ did.”

Harry grinned. “You and my cousin have lived eerily similar lives, it seems.”

“Did he also join sides with the person trying to kill you?”

“Er, no, he didn’t.” Harry’s face fell. 

“I’m only kidding, you know that, right?”

Harry glared at Draco earnestly. “I hate you, sometimes, you know.”

“Oh, give in. You  _ love _ me.”

Both of them paused. Draco’s eyes widened to the size of saucers until he looked like a cat on the prowl. A mimic of Draco’s own, scared reaction flitted across Harry’s face.

_ Oh _ .

_ Oh _ , thought Harry.  _ He really did _ . 

This was love. It had to be. 

It was the feeling that clawed at his stomach every time Draco sat down next to him during meals. The feeling that sprung up when Draco’s hand accidentally brushed over Harry’s while he was chopping up a root to dump into their potion. The feeling that arose when Harry saw Draco finally sleeping peacefully, when Harry saw Draco cry, when Draco would put his head in Harry’s lap in the common room for no reason at all.

“I didn’t mean…” Draco trailed off, his voice high-pitched and rattling with nerves. 

Harry stepped closer to the other boy. “No, you’re probably right anyway.”

“I’m… I’m what?”

“I think you might be right in saying, yes, I probably  _ do _ love you.”

And the book Harry had gotten Draco for Christmas tumbled to the floor.


	17. epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “And I urge you to please notice when you are happy, and exclaim or murmur or think at some point, ‘If this isn’t nice, I don’t know what is.’” — A Man Without a Country, Kurt Vonnegut

February came swift, gushing with an enthusiastic buzz of light, freeing energy. The last traces of snow were beginning to vanish from the grounds of Hogwarts, although the mountains off in the distance remained capped in white. 

Everything was falling back into its place and soon, spring would raise its head in the following month.

The world was anew. Valentine’s Day fever was creeping amongst the large student body. Hints of Amortentia, although banned at Hogwarts by Headmistress McGonagall, could be smelled throughout the corridors. 

Harry, not for the first time, let the lovely scent of treacle tart (a forever favorite), a polished broomstick handle, and something new: faint whiffs of a fruity scent, something resembling citrus.

It was unmistakably Draco. His tropical shampoo that reminded Harry distantly of South America, although he’d never been. Yet, Harry liked to imagine that it was another magical side effect, something that let you transport yourself through smell alone.

Harry had asked Draco about that one day and received no answer. It seemed he would forever be left in the dark. (‘Your family made hair products, shouldn’t  _ you _ know?’ he had said stubbornly.)

“Come with me to Hogsmeade tomorrow,” Draco whispered into Harry’s ear late that night as they sat together, connected as though they were one, on the large, plush couch. His words weren’t so much a question, but a command.

“It’s Valentine’s Day tomorrow,” Harry answered.

“I know. Will you come?”

“Obviously.”

Draco smiled. Not a smirk. Not a sneer. A full, whole smile— a pure, white grin.

“Weasley and Granger won’t mind?”

“I wish you would start calling them by their actual names, you know,” Harry said. “But I think they’re over the initial shock of us… being together.”

“To be quite honest, I don’t think I’m even over the initial shock myself,” Draco replied smoothly. “I keep thinking I’m going to wake up and this will have just been a dream.”

Harry threaded his fingers through Draco’s hair, which was no longer thin and weak, but soft and silky beneath his touch. He supposed that meant Draco didn’t feel entirely sick of being alive anymore.

“Awe,” Harry said, gushing. “I see I’m living rent free in your dreams.”

“Don’t be rude.

“No, I’m entirely serious,” Harry continued. “If this is all just your dream, then I hope I am having the same one.”

“I don’t want this to just be a dream,” Draco said sadly, his voice like the whisper of a ghost.

“Pinch me, then.”

“Pardon?”

“I said pinch me,” Harry replied. “Then we’ll be certain this isn’t a dream.”

“Aren’t you supposed to pinch me if  _ I’m _ the one worrying about being stuck in a dream?”

Harry sighed and ran a hand through his shaggy hair. “Fine. How about we  _ both _ pinch each other to prove neither of us are dreaming?”

“Seems reasonable.”

With soft, playful eyes, Harry reached down and pinched the smooth, white skin of Draco’s arm.

“Ow!”

Draco didn’t hesitate to pinch Harry back almost instantly. A short-fused, immediate reaction. Something sharp, yet entirely lighthearted.

“I think it’s safe to say we’re not stuck in a dream,” Harry said. “We’re also encroaching on two months together so… I would be quite pissed if I suddenly awoke.”

Draco looked softly at Harry. “My arm still hurts.”

“Want me to kiss it better?” Harry teased.

“Yes, please,” he said with all the seriousness in the world. Stoic and unmoving, needy and craving love he’d been so long deprived of.

It is hell to be who you are, but it is rewarding when you discover that you are not alone. That was something Harry continued to learn, continued to recite whenever he felt empty and without purpose.

“Okay.”

Lifting Draco’s arm up lightly, Harry lowered his head and pressed a gentle kiss on the soft skin. Continuing tenderly, Harry moved his lips down to Draco’s hand where he placed a small kiss at the center of his palm.

“Better?”

Draco shivered and Harry pulled him upward, grabbing Draco’s face and cupping it. He looked so young now. A feat which hadn’t been accomplished by any eighth year since they had stepped into Hogwarts for their last, repeated year.

Without hesitance, Harry let a gentle kiss fall onto Draco’s lips. Draco reciprocated the touch gladly.

They pulled away, more content than ever before. Another feat. Something greater, something to be remembered and treasured, held onto for forever.

To be held is to be loved.

Draco grinned cheekily. Harry’s face pulled into a playful realization.

“Was this dream nonsense all a rouse to get me to kiss you?” Harry asked.

“And if it was?”

Harry smiled, shaking his head in a disapproving manner, though he was not entirely  _ unsatisfied _ with their previous actions at all.

“You have to admit it was a brilliant idea,” Draco laughed.

“Well, it worked.”

“Of course it worked, I’m a genius and you told me you loved me before we even got together.”

“So you’re saying I’m easily manipulated?”

“Quite so.”

“Ah ha!” Harry said. “So you’re using me?”

It was intended as a joke, but Draco pouted, lips drawing tightly together. Harry still held his face in his hands.

“Never.”

“That’s very generous of you,” Harry replied and then kissed him again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you made it to the end and actually enjoyed this story, i love you so much


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